Love is a battlefield
by Starscream's Mishap
Summary: An accumulation of slash stories about the used, abused, confused, and the TFs who love them. Both factions. Review only those you like, cancel any time, additions forthcoming.
1. I Think I Love You

Today would be the day to do it. Most of the Autobots were running around trying to mobilize for another peace conference on Cybertron, making it a passing distraction that no one would know about, except for Tracks, who had caught him looking it up on the Internet. Sky Lynx was departing that afternoon with a few representatives, casting the entire Autobot City in turmoil and leaving those not going bored, overworked, or needing some kind of vent. Springer was **ready**.

He found his target walking down the hall, needing a break but trying to get everything required to be accomplished done first. He hadn't stopped moving all day, trying to prepare himself for take-off time, since he'd be gone for a very long time and didn't want to abandon any unfinished business. Springer caught up to him, with difficulty.

"Hey Jazz?"

"What's up, Springer?"

"Well…" He cleared his throat and began his monologue. "_I was sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream. Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain._"

"You have a brain?" the saboteur playfully asked, shoving Springer against the wall while not breaking momentum. "I thought you had a fanbelt loose."

"Nah. Just a screw. _Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head. And spring up in my bed screaming out the words I dread-"_

"I'm blasting off soon," the Porsche reminded him, in a tone suggesting that this was something that had better be quick.

"Well, yeah, you are. But that's not what I'm trying to say." Jazz would not make this easy. Springer had spent so much time preparing, practicing…and Jazz was tossing out flippant remarks and making it harder to concentrate. "Let me tell it to you this way: _This morning I woke up with this feeling I didn't know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself. I'd hide it to myself and never talk about it, and did not go and shout it when you walked into the room."_

"You have a screw loose!" he suddenly laughed, belatedly. The triple changer laughed at his friend's lack of quick thinking but was still exasperated. "Sorry, man. My processor's still in slow-mo from not recharging right."

So something was bothering Jazz, too; the stress of going to Cybertron for an interplanetary pressure-chamber was not abiding well. Springer had not been going offline easily, either, thanks to this song playing in his head. An irritating, annoying song that repeated so often Springer knew it backwards, too.

_yaw siht tlef reven I taht yas ot em seirrow ti hgouht_

_fo edam si efil tahw taht t'nsi uoy evol I kniht I_

_rof eruc on si ereht evol a fo erus ton m'I that diarfa m'I_

_fo diarfa os I ma tahw os uoy evol I kniht I_

This Autobot was special. They had been friends for a short amount of time, but thanks to circumstances (a scenario that seemed to happen a lot for the war-torn Cybertronians), they had found a small patch of emotional rock to sit down on and get to know each other. Jazz was funny, quick-witted, and talented. Springer was the same, except berated for his lack of taste in decent earth-music. They had formed and uneasy friendship on the premise that each were in love with somebody else and needed to talk to someone who understood. Two halves did not always make a whole; sometimes they made a mess. Springer HAD to get to him, or the whole attempt to communicate would be for naught. Jazz would get onto Sky Lynx and they might not see each other for a very long time.

"Jazz…_I don't know what I'm up against,"_

"Decepticons," came the response. The saboteur knew what he was doing, judging from that smug grin.

"_I don't know what it's all about."_

"None of do, man, we just keep goin'." He was doing this on purpose! Springer tried again.

"_I got so much to think about._"

"Not in that brain of yours," the Porsche replied, stopping to deposit a datapad on Rodimus' overflowing desk. "Man, I think he needs another visit from OfficeMax Prime."

Frustration mounting, Springer wondered if he should tell him in another language.

_Hey, pienso te amo tan cuál es yo así que asustado de mí está asustado que no soy seguro de un amor allí no soy ninguna curación para mí _

_Pienso que te amo no es que qué vida se hace sin embargo de ella se preocupa me para decirme nunca sentía esta manera_

"This is important. _Believe me you really don't have to worry, I only wanna make you happy and if you say "hey go away" I will. But I think better still I'd better stay around and love you. Do you think I have a case let me ask you to your face. Do you think you love me?"_

Springer's hands waved encouragingly as he eagerly awaited his audience's reaction. Jazz gave a slow smile and laughed gently. "I have no idea. You finally stumped me."

"It's the theme from the Partridge Family!" shouted Cliffjumper, who had been walking behind the pair for most of the duration of Springer's recitation. "You know…I Think I Love You?"

"I think I love you too! What took you so long, baby?" Jazz cried, sweeping the mini-bot up into his arms and kissing his red helmet a la Pepe Le Pew while his captive struggled. Springer laughed so hard he had to brace himself against the wall.

"You two are WEIRD! Who tries to guess which TV theme song the other's saying as a game? Why can't you fight each other for fun like normal mechs?" Cliffjumper wrenched himself away from the Porsche and inched away in case Springer tried something.

"We ARE normal," Jazz retorted. "Nah, wait, you're right about Springer. It took him a week to figure out I was doing the theme from 'Friends.' Didn'tcha?"

Springer shrugged dismissively as Cliffjumper made a break for it. "Not as long as _you_ when I did the theme from 'Gundam Wing.' What was that, ten days?"

Jazz shoved him against the wall again but missed and sent him falling through a doorway by accident. "So this one took a few tries. I got one for ya: **Hong Kong Phooey**_-"_

Springer looked up to see an embarrassed Ultra Magnus crouched behind the door. Startled, he motioned for the triple changer to keep quiet. Springer stood up and joined Jazz, breaking out his singing voice.

"**Number one super guy!**" He and Jazz struck a K'ung Fu pose together and continued singing. "**Hong Kong Phooey! Quicker than the human eye!"**

Tracks passed them going the opposite direction and shook his head. "Fools," he muttered as he approached the doorway Springer had just fallen into.

Springer sang louder to cover up the inevitable noise that would erupt the minute Ultra Magnus captured his prey. "**He's got style, a groovy style, and a car that just won't stop-"**

No one was perfect. Some Autobots find fun lurking in corners, some guess television theme songs. 'Whatever works,' Springer thought, blocking Jazz's hand as they whapped and sliced their way down the hall towards Sky Lynx.** "****When the going gets tough, he's really rough, with a Hong Kong Phooey chop (Hi-Ya!)"**

"**Fan-riffic!"** called Ultra Magnus from the floor of the other room. Jazz cracked up and continued singing.

They paused at Sky Lynx, smiling at the other. "Take care of Prowl for me," Jazz asked, trusting only Springer to keep the grave marker maintained while he was away.

"Take care of Roddy," Springer returned, giving Jazz a little shove towards the entrance where Rodimus beckoned, demanding to know what was keeping Ultra Magnus. The mech in question staggered outside with grinning Tracks in tow. The Corvette paused next to Springer and waved goodbye with the rest of the Autobots sending the peace conference participants off. As Sky Lynx disappeared into space Tracks asked the triple changer if Jazz had guessed what Springer was trying to tell him.

"No," he lied sadly. It was better than admitting the truth.


	2. The Joy Luck Club

More of a scene squirrel echoing a philosophy.

"Soundwave."

It was a low, dark voice that startled the Decepticon out of the offline stasis he was enjoying with his tapes encapsulated inside of him. The voice's source did not wait for a response, instead demanding he purge his tapes of their cozy recharge space and to move over. Soundwave was hesitant to wake them, but the glowing red optics in the dark demanded obedience.

"As you command, Megatron." He could hear the reluctant scraping of Laserbeak, as well as Frenzy's irritated whiney moan, both reminding him that they worked too hard today to be awakened like this. Not important. Rumble perceived the reason for their expulsion and herded the irritated Decepticons out into the next room.

Frenzy stared at the locked door they'd just passed through. "THAT'S how he got the extra energon to wake me up?"

Rumble didn't look up from the elaborate game he was setting up for the five of them to play as they waited. "What, did you think he just asked nice and Megatron gave it up?" Frenzy was not the smartest guy, which explained why he was second to last to be resurrected. "We were EARNED."

Awakening his beloved tapes had required more energon than the newly-online Decepticons could afford. With a bare minimum (and a large faith-loan from their leader) Soundwave brought back Laserbeak, Ravage, and Rumble. After 'working' off the faith-loan, at long last, the Decepticon tape player had been able to accumulate extra to bring back Buzzsaw and Frenzy. The latter of the two shuddered at the unreality of it.

"What do they DO in there?" he asked, to no one in particular.

A squawking noise from Buzzsaw suggested it was better he not speculate.

* * *

Megatron did not kiss. Kissing was a sign of surrender, of needing another. He needed no one. Instead he wordlessly pressed the white buttons at Soundwave's hips and allowed his optics to glow at the low groan it elicited. Soundwave did not touch him. Megatron did all of the touching, pressing his fingers in spots that riled the red energy field into a force to be reckoned with, giving him a rush of power in the ability to play this tape recorder to his own specifications. He was so cold, bland, inanimate...bringing him to life was an interesting game. If he were acting, Megatron didn't care. The reactions were priceless, real or feigned.

"Who do you love?" he hissed, looming overhead like the Death Star.

"I love you, mighty Megatron," Soundwave replied in his flat, monotonous voice. It was comical to hear such a humiliating phrase spoken so blandly.

"Excellent." Megatron laughed in his face, he didn't care. He knew why Soundwave did this. "Prepare for my entry."

"As you command, Megatron." His leader was a fast worker, making Soundwave wish he could actually _ask_ him to do a few of the things wanted; however, this was not a mutual interaction. He heard the telltale transforming noise and caught Megatron before he hit the floor. His energy field flared slightly with the excitement of what he would do to this glorious ruler.

Gently pushing the 'eject' button, Soundwave placed the gun inside of his tape deck and closed the door, allowing his aroused energy field to infiltrate the silver mech completely.

* * *

"AUGH!"

Rumble grimaced, face buried in his gamepieces, as Ravage instinctively looked towards the door and the condors lowered their heads in embarrassment.

"AUGH!"

Frenzy saw that no one was jumping up to check on Soundwave, forcing him to conclude that these noises were par for course. It didn't make him feel any better.

"AUUUUUUUUUUUGH!"

Rumble motioned to Frenzy to shut his audiosensors off. "_Talk through your interior radio_."

"_That's an illegal move,"_ he grunted to Ravage as his piece went where it shouldn't have.

'_He has diplomatic immunity,"_ returned Rumble for him. _"You'd know that if you were paying attention."_

"_How can ANYBODY pay attention-" _he wanted to finish the transmission and found it too embarrassing. The others watched him fumble for the right phrasing in a sort of bemused contempt. Buzzsaw transmitted the opinion that soon it would be Frenzy's turn.

"_My turn for WHAT?"_

"_We all do it,"_ Rumble shrugged. _"You gotta prove your loyalty somehow."_

Laserbeak transmitted a message from Megatron, one that apparently every Decepticon had seen. It had began after he'd discovered Soundwave's ability to please him. To Frenzy's horror, he discovered that their leader was a jealous mech, one who demanded that they completely give themselves to the cause, to the point of only being with him for social interaction. It was called 'paying homage.' There was no pairing off; it was either Megatron or punishment.

No one seemed to object to this, except, Buzzsaw told him, for Starscream and the Constructicons. Starscream hadn't been forced to comply, for some puzzling reason, and the Constructicons hid from him enough to only see their leader when he needed them for more important tasks than debasing themselves.

"_He's not bad,_" Rumble commented as he annexed and entire corner of the board. _"Wildrider's more into the crazy stuff. I liked that. 'Till Starscream caught us and I had to help him with his last stupid takeover plan as blackmail._"

So no one actually obeyed the mandate, except for those who had a death wish. Frenzy glanced at the door again, feeling sorry for himself. Megatron would never see him as anything more than chattel, another gun when the first failed. Something to play with when the fighting was over.

Ravage inserted his opinion that at least Soundwave wasn't being called into his throne room to service him, like those 'skanky' Stunticons. He said that to rile Rumble, who still thought of Wildrider with some chagrin. His teeth gleamed nastily in the light as he soundly defeated the periwinkle mech's four vital stations, watching him pretend not to care about either.

"_He still pays Soundwave, since he was the first, but the minute he changes his mind, we're slagged. So DON'T make him mad."_

* * *

The red light of Soundwave's energy field shot through Megatron with a hard, driving force. It excited his sensors and fired his circuits while giving him such a pleasant cooling affect the silver leader could barely contain his ecstasy. He screamed again as pleasure assaulted him.

'_Now who loves you?'_ Soundwave was tempted to ask as he drove another spike of electrons into his leader. This task was like any other he would be bidden to perform, barring the uncomfortable forced intimacy. He did not like the silver mech so close to him, as though he were another tape. He did not feel that way about Megatron. The only part that truly upset his calm demeanor was the prompted expression of devotion. He hated it. As far as Soundwave was concerned, he'd shown his loyalty to the cause a thousand times over. Thinking about it made him angry again, causing another blast to strike the gun in his tape compartment.

The beams of his internal electrons were wearing him out, and after a few more flashes he was completely depleted. He apologized for ending the evening early, but his expression of regret was silenced. Megatron transformed and wobbled out, merely hissing the compliment of excellence before regaining his composure and stalking past the tapes who were so surprised to see him come out early they forgot to kneel. He paused at the door with a small purple rod glowing in between his extended fingertips.

"I shall no longer _seek_ your company. When your services are required you will be _summoned_." The dark threat, one that ruined any sense of power Soundwave had over his situation, loomed with the angriest of glares as his leader exited quickly. How did he know that the only aspect enjoyable to the blue mech was that it was accomplished in the safety of his own chambers? Rumble caught the rod flung at them and presented it to a slowly sinking Soundwave.

Frenzy watched his master place the rod into his chest, inserting a plug powering up the one quietly contained in a recharge platelet. Ratbat's optics lit up as he slowly lifted his head and squeaked. According to Laserbeak, one more rod would bring him completely resuscitated. Ratbat drifted back offline and the tapes returned, except for the lingering Frenzy.

Soundwave never really changed expressions. His inner processes were a mystery to all of them because and in spite of the mask he wore, the one that kept his follower from discerning whether or not his leader was humiliated, joyous, relieved, or disgusted. He reached for a vibe and only found the pleasure one gets from a small favor done well.

"Boss?"

"Communicate, Frenzy."

"You don't have to do this." He _did_, actually, considering that no one would dare refuse Megatron, and even _if_ Soundwave wanted to stop now, it would be like thinking breaks would bring you to a screeching halt in space. The trouble alone would not be worth it. Frenzy wasn't sure what he wanted to tell the large blue mech who had done this to bring them to life, but he hoped that he was saying it the right way, whatever it was. "We could come up with another way, maybe I could take up a collection or start trading different grades with the other guys or, or..." Soundwave shook his head, blank optics reflecting nothing but a warm feeling cascading into the small red and black tape.

"Sympathy appreciated." Frenzy was the mushiest of his minions only if Buzzsaw were not in the room. Buzzsaw kept his opinions to himself. Soundwave patted the mech on the head and opened the tape case to let him go back in to finish his recharge. Once he had, the mech stumbled back to his own plate, trying not to recall the nauseating declaration he'd been forced to utter. He decided to overlap it with a better one.

"Sympathy appreciated exponentially," he growled softly, turning his operations down as the welcome surge from his recharge plate took over.


	3. Wonderful

Somewhere lost in my universe, part of "The Space Between" and part of the Padded Cell's Slash Haven, this fic fell. Nothing like the ultimate story of forgiveness to underscore the two mechs who will never forgive each other.

**Skyfire: Wonderful**

**Woo-hoo-hooooo do do, do do dooo...**

The snow was coming down like a curtain over Lillehammer, Norway, where the Decepticons had attempted an Olympic-sized attack. Smoke flew up everywhere Optimus Prime turned his head, an effect like lace meeting a dark gauze. Luckily, the battle was over. The humans would be furious over the damage and he was in no mood for a confrontation. "Autobots! TRANSFORM AND ROLL OUT!"

**Woo-hoo-hooooo do do, do do dooo...**

How many times would he say that before someone snapped? Skyfire sighed inaudibly as minibots rushed into his holding area to get out of the snow.

"Wait for us!" Spike called as Bumblebee staggered up the loading ramp.

"You two are not riding with Optimus?"

"This is quicker. Besides, my injuries were listed as 'minimal'. He's carrying the seriously wounded."

Well, that was not an issue. Skyfire took to the air, listening to Cliffjumper and Brawn bragging about who made Starscream cry 'uncle' first. Brawn thought it was when he picked him up and spun him around with his friends watching. Cliffjumper thought it was when the Lamborghini brothers piledrove him into the snow.

"When did Starscream become such a coward?" Bumblebee interrupted. Skyfire felt all heads turn up to him. "Skyfire?"

"He's always been like that," Skyfire explained, assuming the best explanation would be a simple one.

"Hey, what was he like when you knew him, you know, back then?" The human Spike was bestowed a great deal of curiosity for an organic. It embarrassed Skyfire more than usual.

"Funny. Always looking for trouble. A great prankster."

"Sounds like Sideswipe." Cliffjumper was suspicious of anyone who found a spark of decency in the Decepticons. He and Skyfire had been good friends until a disagreement kept them respectful but distant.

"In some ways, he WAS. Handsome, adventurous, always processing for something fun to do..." Skyfire said too much, he could sense their glares. "He was a neutral back then."

The others had enough. No one wants to hear their worst enemy glorified. Spike was different. Before they reached the ark he asked Skyfire for the whole story. Skyfire told him to wait until he'd gotten rid of his cargo. Once everyone was back to normal, Spike found him in the laboratory mixing chemicals. The human begged for details that no one else seemed to care about, so Skyfire decided there would be no harm in telling him, as long as he knew that the other Autobots would not appreciate knowing these things about Skyfire.

"My creator decided I needed a companion."

* * *

**Did I tell you how much I miss **

**Your sweet kiss?**

"Skyfire!"

Out of the corner of her dark blue optic Missile detected a blur of white and red dodge for cover behind a table. The lab was a mess. It looked as though a bomb had gone off.

* * *

_"In the beginning, right before the Great Cybertron War there was a boom in the intelligence industry. Scientists were trying to profit from the oncoming attacks."_

_"That's terrible!" Spike exclaimed._

_"That's business. Are you trying to tell me no earthlings would do that?"_

* * *

"You have five Astro-seconds to get out here, both of you!" 

Slowly, the larger white mech crawled out of his hiding place. She could hear his co-culprit snickering. Starscream was right, a giant robot looked silly crouching down like that Missile bit back a laugh as she gestured around the room at the carnage. The entire room was dripping wet, smoke coming off of the counters, and broken containers littered the floor.

"Would you care to explain all of this?"

"No." This was supplied with more laughter. Missile called for Starscream to come out.

Starscream majestically rose, his handsome visage merrily grinning. "What is WITH you two? I asked you to create more acid pellets for the order due today, and you destroyed the lab!"

"We did make more acid." More giggling. "It burned through everything we tried to find to contain it."

Missile had enough. "Both of you, get out of here! You are banned from the lab until further notice." Skyfire's face fell. Starscream gave her a sweetly pouting look. "Out!"

* * *

_"Starscream had an amazing penchant for getting himself into trouble. He still does. His other talent was conniving our mentor into forgiveness. The last time we blew up the lab he presented her with the solution to the problem we had with the chip enlarger she tried to make, thus beating our competitor. The commission alone made her forget the destruction we caused."_

* * *

Skyfire glared at his best friend. "No matter what I do, you always get me into some scrape." 

"Not quite. We told the truth." To punctuate that, Missile ran outside to call them back.

"Megatron requested more! I require your assistance!"

Starscream rushed back in. "Your creator has the most forgiving temperament, Skyfire." He enjoyed that in general scientists do not lose their tempers - too much. The instant clemency that followed his slip-ups would get him into MAJOR trouble sooner or later.

Missile was waiting at the door, jumping up to kiss them on the tops of their foreheads with joy. "Skyfire, get the vats ready. Starscream, find the Ammonium Chloride. I have an announcement when we're done with this." She instructed Starscream to solder a wire she had missed when repairing a burner.

"What's that?" Starscream hated suspense. Missile loved to indulge her protege, allowing him many impertinences. The female blue jet smiled at him. "The negotiations were a success. We're merging with Reactor's laboratory."

* * *

_"Some claim that there is no worse mentor than a female. The downside of the female transformer is that most are built to be either companions or spies, and that such a paradox is an accident waiting to happen. Companions will smother you, spies will smother and betray you. Starscream and I had been trained at the Academy (in different eras), he no doubt absorbing these assumptions. He took the news of Missile's abandonment with his usual logic."_

* * *

"What!" Starscream stared at her. "How COULD you?" 

Skyfire nodded at his creator. "We will have a higher profit margin."

"This is about PROFIT? What about the integrity of having your own laboratory?"

"Starscream, you know we're not doing that well. Reactor can offer you more than I can here. You need to consider your future, both of you. A decaying old lab is not the best method of advancement."

* * *

_"We both knew she was giving up her dream in order to provide her creation and protege with opportunities. Starscream and I had discussed this endlessly with her. Now that the talk was reality, it upset Starscream the most._

"_I had another creator who abandoned the project when he decided I was too large for space travel. She finished assembly and took me to Alpha Trion. I aided her in her lab, ignoring what I was programmed to do, and hated it, but I did it for her." Spike looked at what he was doing now and asked if he still hated it. "Yes. When she saw how unhappy I was, buried there, she discovered Starscream and decided he would be perfect. I could not believe our good fortune having such a charismatic individual who would be my friend and protector. Missile was happy that I would have what I wanted."_

* * *

"Reactor has already promised me you'll be doing intergalatic travel." Skyfire's optics gleamed. He'd never expected HIS dreams to come true. He looked at Starscream, who was hurrying over to Missile. 

"You can't leave us!" He stretched his arms out to her. She backed away, startled. Missile did not enjoy another's touch; this was why she'd brought the two jets together. Starscream tried not to appear hurt by this.

"I won't leave you." She compromised by putting her hand on his arm. "I am with you always."

**Did I tell you I didn't cry? **

**Well I lied I lie lie lie lie lie lied.**

* * *

_"Starscream had never reavealed how he felt about Missile. It was uncomfortably obvious. Although she avoided any undue affection he still sought her out, to my dismay. I took comfort in knowing she never considered him anything but mine."_

* * *

Skyfire waited until his friend was offline before he crept back to the lab to confront his creator, to avoid more drama. 

"Missile?" he whispered. She was always in here, even during recharge cycles.

"Skyfire." She sat up, holding a comforting arm out to him. He hurried over, kneeling, and allowed her to kiss the top of his head. It was the only real affection either acknowledged.

"Why must you shun Starscream?"

"Because he's yours, my dear." She had adopted the confused mech in hopes that he would keep her creation safe from the evil of the world.

"No, he is not. He wants to bond with you." Missile was startled. "He did not reveal this; I deduced."

"Unexpected this is, and unfortunate." Missile had a sweet voice, one that Skyfire could listen to for hours. She looked at him sorrowfully. "This was not how I wanted to leave you."

"When?" Not why. Starscream was not aware of the real cost of this merge. Reactor wanted Missile to move to another planet, away from the young minds he would mold into Decepticon warriors. Missile had seen the writing on the wall, knowing that the Decepticons were the best way to keep both from being slaughtered.

"Tomorrow."

"Starscream will not allow it."

"He has no choice."

**Over real over **

**When I nearly hit the face I loved **

**So tired of packaging the anger **

**Always pushing you away **

Reactor greeted his newest mechs to the fleet. His lab was huge, full of the best supplies Decepticon plundering could provide. Starscream was fascinated. Missile's laboratory PALED in comparison. When he turned around, he saw Missile kissing the top of Skyfire's head good-bye. He ran back in a panic.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to leave," she told him. "I do not work here."

"NO!" Starscream followed her outside, where she transformed and flew into space without a real farewell. He turned to Skyfire, crimson optics wet. "No," he moaned, face buried in his hands.

Cautiously, Skyfire put his arms around his friend. "She did it for us. She wanted it this way."

"No," he sobbed, muffled by Skyfire's shoulder.

"We...still have each other."

**Did I tell you you're wonderful? I miss you yes I do. **

**Did I tell you that I was wrong?**

**I was wrong **

**Cos you're wonderful yeah **

* * *

_Spike stared __silently __at the large white mech. He had no idea how to take this. Starscream emotional, Skyfire manipulative...Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? Skyfire stared at the beaker of chemicals as he paused for a moment._

"_That was the last time either of us saw her." He noticed Spike standing there agape. "You are fortunate to have two creators."_

"_My mom died when I was little." Sparkplug was all Spike had. "I still grieve."_

"_Starscream mourned her loss for a long time. Quietly. We had a lot of work to do, and Reactor was a stern taskmaster."_

* * *

**Did I tell you how much I miss **

**Your smile? **

"Starscream! Come quick!"

Starscream rushed over to the other corner of the lab. "What is it?" A large white lump of foam greeted him, hitting him in the face. He sputtered as he wiped the substance from his face.

"It's a polishing solvent. Look!" Skyfire held up a reflected surface so that Starscream could see his shiny face. "You look almost decent."

"If it did that for ME, it will do wonders for YOU." He snatched the dispenser from his friend's hands and coated his head with it. Skyfire was covered in a matter of moments, before he could wrestle the foam shooter from his friend's hands.

"Your turn!" He tried to fire it, but it was empty. Instead he threw it at Starscream, who ducked. It spilled a massive collection of chemicals that poured to the drain on the floor until it came in contact with some stray foam. That caused it to ignite.

"AUGH!" Both mechs made a break for the emergency chemical shower in the of the lab, foam flying everywhere. Now there was a trail that quickly grew to a conflagration. Reactor decided to make an appearance at that particular moment. He took in the scene of two robots trying to push each other out of the shower while his lab caught on fire with amazing stoicism. He pulled the fire alarm, drenching the entire area with flame-retardant chemicals. This caught the mechs' attention.

"Are you two functional?" He asked calmly.

"Yes, sir." Both stood next to each other, heads down. The polish of the foam washed off and gave them a slightly bedraggled look.

"Good. It will not be difficult for you to clean this mess up, as well as dispose of the ruined experiments. You may also report to me in a cycle for your traveling papers."

The two exchanged glances.

"You are too energetic for a laboratory setting; I believe this will change if you explore a few systems. It's what Missile wanted, although I admit I was obdurate enough to consider her idea folly." The mention of his beloved mentor caused Starscream's head to fall farther in misery. He had not recovered from her departure.

**Did I tell you I was ok? **

**Well no way **

**No way way way **

"Atmosphere nonexistent. Crust looks supportable. There are rumors of a robot colony."

Skyfire knew that. He regretted having to be here to tell him this. It was their one-hundredth planet explored, a momentous occasion that would be celebrated in a gloomy fashion. "Missile was here." She had occasionally sent messages for Skyfire through Reactor, but had purposely excluded Starscream in the process.

"Missile? Where?" He had not caught the past participle in Skyfire's statement.

Primus, this was hard. "Follow me."

**Over real over **

**When I nearly hit the face I loved **

**So tired of packaging the anger **

**Always pushing you away**

They landed at the mausoleum with no asides from Starscream. No confusion, no protests. He followed Skyfire to the plate bearing her name: Missile. The royal blue jet with dark blue optics was gone. Starscream kneeled, producing an old soldering iron to place as an offering to the scientist. Where did he get that?

**Did I tell you you're wonderful? I miss you yes I do**

**Did I tell you that I was wrong? **

**I was wrong **

**Cos you're wonderful yeah yeah**

"Starscream?"

"Yes?" The smaller mech was kneeling, lost in thought.

"How did you know she had passed?"

Sigh. "She didn't want you to know. I'm sorry." He didn't tell him what he was sorry for. The silence continued.

"What? What didn't she want me to know? Did she contact you? The only way she could have done that was if she bonded-" He gasped. "No! Tell me no!"

No reply.

"Starscream, did you bond with my creator and not TELL me?" What about all that talk of he and Starscream belonging together? Her deliberate avoidance of his affection? He could not stand it. "LIES!"

**Now now now each and everyday I realize the price I have to pay **

**You **

**you're wonderful **

**And now for your information I'm walking around like an arm decoration **

Skyfire waited outside the structure for his associate to come back out. When he finally did, they said nothing, transforming and flying to the main compound where the other exiles stayed.

* * *

_"We never discussed it. He got what he wanted, both of us had, wasn't this what I wanted, too? Why should I be so upset? It had NEVER entered his mind to think of me as anything else but a friend." Here his voice trailed off to a whisper. "I did not know what to do next. All I could process was how to get away from him."_

* * *

**You you're so wonderful So high I can't get over it **

**So deep I cant get under it **

**You You're wonderful yeah You're wonderful yeah yeah **

**You're wonderful yeah yeah You're wonderful yeah yeah Wonderful **

They had been investigating a giant planet with a huge red storm in a nine-planet galaxy when they decided to recharge on one of the moons. Skyfire lay on the rocky terrain and considered his options. He could return to Cybertron. Forge a new life. Prove to Reactor his competency in the laboratory. Join the army. Anything but face the reality that the two beings he had loved more than anything else had stabbed him in the back.

The emptiness filled his spark with a heavy cold. Missile, who had feared for Skyfire when she saw the personality Alpha Trion gave him, failing to protect him. She claimed Cybertron was a harsh environment. Starscream had been the answer, forged as a warrior, the perfect fit. Missile wanted Skyfire to be protected with a companion. She had sacrificed everything for Skyfire, to make he and Starscream a pair. How could she bond with him, isolating Skyfire?

It came as a warm moment in his brain, like the embodiment of a pleasant thought. He embraced it, feeling the happiness flood him. Starscream was next to him, forehead pressing against his friend in a moment of telepathy. For that was what it was: the shallowest advance in the realm of bonding, but bonding nonetheless, at least to Skyfire. He heard the explanation that Starscream adored them both, but had felt the closest to his mentor. They were afraid to hurt their beloved Skyfire, and had thus agreed to be secretive. He regretted not telling Skyfire, denying the inclusion he deserved, but that he was still his friend.

* * *

_"Ironic," Skyfire commented wryly to himself. Spike tilted his head questioningly. "She had given up so much to help me, yet the only sacrifice I truly wanted was irresistible to her."_"_What did you say to him?"_

"_I returned his telepathy saying that I was furious and would never forgive him. I hoped that something would happen to leave _him_ alone in the universe so that he could have an inkling of the abandonment I felt at that moment."_

"_Whoah." Skyfire's wrath had proved to be prophetic. No wonder they avoided each other. The wound was too deep for a mere war to serve as a cathartic channel. Spike felt sorry for both of them._

* * *

**Did I tell you you're wonderful?**

**I miss you yes I do. **

**Did I tell you that I was wrong? **

**I was wrong For so long long long **

Lyra walked in, back from patrol with Powerglide. Skyfire asked the royal blue jet with violet optics to please get him a soldering iron, he was going to teach her something new today. When she departed again, Spike regarded the scowling mech.

"She reminds you of Missile, doesn't she?"

"She reminds me of both. It's my ironic punishment to be hidden in a lab with the constant admonition of my foolishness."

"It wasn't your fault. You were angry. You didn't mean to say those things."

"Spike, please." He turned to the very young boy. "You cannot control your feelings, but you WILL control the way you behave. Can I take it back? No. Never. Starscream is lost to me, Missile is dead. I learned an important lesson too late. All that remains is a stuffy room and a lost shadow." He considered this. "His rescuing me was a petition for forgiveness. If we have regretted our past, neither will ever admit it." He turned back to his work, accepting the iron when Lyra handed it to him a few moments later. Spike remained rooted to the spot, absent-mindedly watching Skyfire as he began teaching Lyra how to use the tool. "Be cautious or you'll - Ouch!" He yanked his hand away, too late. There was a trace of annoyance in his voice.

"Sorry," she said softly.

"It is all right...my dear. Try again." Spike marveled at his patience. As he left the lab to find Bumblebee he heard him praising her work. "Wonderful."


	4. FTD

This job was not worth $10.50 and hour with no benefits. Josh Miller wheeled his '99 Pontiac Grand Am up to what looked like the entrance of a giant city and tried to tell the fast-talking guard what he was doing there.

"IhavetoinspectitfirstthenI'lldeliverittohim-"

"Let me see it," the smaller, yellow one cheerfully offered after Josh protested that he had to present it himself.

"Okay, sure, whatever." The only reason Josh had this assignment was that his boss had overheard him tell someone that Optimus Prime saved him from a building fire a long time ago. His boss was an idiot to think a minor interaction almost a decade ago meant he knew how to find his way through a giant city of Autobots to talk to a different leader altogether. "Do you guys know where his office is?"

The guards exchanged glances. "I'll take him. I just need to call your work to make sure you're who you say you are." They had a list of delivery people, but this particular enterprise was a first. Once the one who introduced himself as Bumblebee had called his boss, as well as the chief of police, and the FBI, and his grandmother's ex-sorority formal date, etc., Josh was told to follow the yellow Volkswagen to the center of Tower 6.

Josh, upon the fast-talker's request, turned his radio to 97.9 to hear Bumblebee tell those stationed at Tower 6 to anticipate a delivery man. They demanded to know who sent him. Josh rolled his window down once they'd reached the door and told them that this was ordered online, and the name and e-mail address wished to be anonymous, except for the name on the card. They didn't want to let him in, until they called his boss and the chief of police (AGAIN?) to make sure that this was a legitimate explanation to their inquiries.

"Jesus Christ on a pogo stick!" Josh fumed to the steering wheel as he turned the car off and popped the trunk. "I'm delivering a freakin' FLOWER BOUQUET!"

Bumblebee walked him to the door, after offering to explain to Rodimus what this was about. One of the guards warned him to be careful. "He's still acting like he's got a nail in his tire."

Josh watched Bumblebee ring the intercom and felt nervous. Dealing with big nasty robots made the upside of this job hard to see. Ten bucks and fifty cents an hour, no benefits, barely adequate compensation for his mileage...it still didn't pay for tuition, books, the dorm, and his beer. Usually people loved getting flowers. The key word was "people." If this Rodimus Prime was as bad as the other robots had been, he wanted to go back to his job writing trashy romance novels for a third-rate publishing company.

"WHAT?"

It snarled like the wrathful beast in "Return of the Jedi." Josh cleared his throat. "FTD."

"_What_?"

"Rodimus, it's me, Bumblebee. This kid's bringing you flowers."

"What..." The door flung open forcefully to reveal a perplexed Prime. The deep lines on his face disappeared in confusion as he accepted the conflagration of roses that dwarfed the deliverer but barely fit the palm of the recipient. A small smile crept up on his face as he looked at them.

"Ten dozen dark red, one dozen of our 'golden moments' color," (those cost $20 a stem) Josh recited as Rodimus looked them over, blanching at their scent.

"Who sent them?" he asked. Josh told him it should say on the card, to which the Autobot leader informed was too small for him to hold; could HE do the honors?

This was not worth what he was getting, after taxes.

Josh read the signature. "It's signed 'Sweetie.' Whatever that means." He wasn't going to get a tip, so why should he care?

Rodimus' small smile widened to a happy beam as he placed the flowers on his overflowing desk. A chuckle rumbled out. "Sweetie. That's too much." He opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a wallet and handing Josh a fifty dollar bill. "Bumblebee, I almost forgot. Spike left his wallet here last week. Tell him I owe him fifty bucks."

Josh protested, on the grounds that he 'technically' couldn't accept tips, that this was an exorbitant amount of money, and it was SOMEBODY else's. Bumblebee led him out of the office, assuring him it was okay (Spike was used to this kind of thing), that the tip was for all the harassment and extra effort it took to get here. He got another twenty from the yellow mech, to his surprise.

"There's more if you tell me who sent those," he whispered as two large Autobots approached from the other end of the hallway. "Quick! Before those guys get here."

Josh admitted he had no idea. His boss handled the online orders. Bumblebee was completely perplexed, because none of them had credit cards, they would have had to go through Kup or Jazz to get that kind of access, blah blah blah. Josh tuned him out as the light above him was blocked.

The other two robots had come up by now: one gray and red and gold with no face, just a visor and a plate, while the other one had wings and a smile that reminded Josh of his golden retriever.

"Anyway, thanks for cheering him up like that. I haven't seen him smile in weeks."

"Always happy to be of service," replied Josh, to be ironic. Satire amused him.

"Hey..." the voice lowered as the mech leaned in, to close out the enormous eavesdroppers walking quietly behind them. "If you get a name, let me know. Just call the main office and leave a message for Bumblebee."

"Sure." The Volkswagen waited for him to get into his car before rolling out. Before Josh could turn his key, the winged Autobot, one of the two who followed them out of the hallway, stepped in front of the gray Pontiac, hand up and optics glittering.

"He like it?"

Nosy group of dudes, these Autobots were. Josh leaned out of his door, hoping in the delay he wouldn't lose Bumblebee in this maze of buildings. "Yeah. It made him smile."

The interrogator squealed, looking up at his faceless associate. "He smile!"

"See!" If he could grin the large metal monster would have. "Like me Grimlock say Jazz tell _me_, Primes dig flowers."


	5. A Simple Kind of Life

For some reason, Gwen Stefani's bitterly disappointed mea culpa rings true for Motormaster. Feel free to disagree.

* * *

I pounded his chest with my fist. I hate him. I hate him for standing in my way, for being more important to Megatron than any of us, for being better than me at EVERYTHING.

"Die, Prime!" I scream. "Die and rot in the Pit!"

_For a long time, I was in love._

I suppose it is inevitable. You spend enough time proving to someone you're worth considering as competition and your interest will consume you.

_Not only in love, I was obsessed._

Don't get me wrong, I hate him. How many other big rigs out there can there be in an army? One, and it better be on the Decepticon side.

_With a friendship that no one else could touch_

We all hate him. The way he lords over us, the way we resemble his followers instead of the superior beings we are, EVERYTHING about him. My brothers in combat, my gestaltmates, have barely tolerated the undisguised contempt we get from those who can fly. The other Decepticons seem to think that we enjoy their myopic idea of what a warrior is, and how we're not anything remotely close to it. I say slag 'em. They have no idea what it's like to drive the way we do, and how it makes us who we are even in the face of the impossible. The Autobots know, but they're our enemies. Worst of all is HIM.

_It didn't work out, I'm covered in shells._

I didn't ask to be created in the image of a human automobile. Vector Sigma obeyed Megatron, the smart thing it is. NO ONE would refuse our fearless leader, not even the embodiment of the randomness that is Existence. Not that I should care, but I do. I want to prove to our growing more impatient leader that we were worth the trouble, no matter how many times he claims otherwise. Why?

Who doesn't want to make their parent happy?

_And all I wanted was the simple things, a simple kind of life._

It doesn't take much to make me happy: get out of my way. Optimus Prime has been in my way for so long I've come up with all kinds of creative waystofantasize aboutdestroying him: acid, blaster, carbon-freezing, Devastator tearing him to pieces, emulsion into a sun, fire, etc. I've killed him so many times in my processor I'm almost shocked to see him in battle, firing his gun at me.

_And all I needed was a simple man, so I could be a wife._

The worst part was the day I realized Megatron had given up on us. He had promised us power and glory upon our creation, but the longer I hung around him the more I realized it wasn't enough. We needed to be considered more than cannon fodder. He didn't care.

The Stunticons are the biggest bunch of losers anyone could ask to command. I know I _didn't_. I have them anyway. They hate me, I hate them, but on a good day Menasor can destroy five Autobots without any major incidents.

* * *

There was no sun; the clouds made everything look like smeared gray paint in the abandoned industrial zone. Breakdown and Dragstrip were nervously watching Megatron as he posed nobly, waiting for either Laserbeak or my scout to tell us where the enemy was in the midst of our energon raid on a power plant that was interrupted. Dead End was polishing his feet, glaring at all of us. Starscream sullenly folded his arms as he waited for the perfect irritating comment to insert into Megatron's monologue to Soundwave.

After a two-hour long ground fight, the Autobots were regrouping. Megatron taunted them by declaring that he could wait for Optimus. (He could wait for _him_, but not for _me_ when I needed to realign a fuel plug.) The Aerialbots had us pinned down, and why Megatron didn't have us attack as Menasor was unclear. Nothing he does makes sense to me. Wildrider, in a moment of recklessness, tore over the hills quick enough to startle Skywarp and Thundercracker into shooting at him, as usual. Unluckily, they missed. No one protested these shootings, since Megatron's sharp reprimands had turned into lax barks to lethargic grunts until they officially tapered off to annoyed looks; if he could be bothered. If I considered Wildrider more than a pain in my tailpipe, I'd complain. I pondered this as Laserbeak came down screeching that the Autobots have us surrounded. Megatron, livid, blamed Wildrider. "You worthless pile of scrap!" he snarled at us. "You aren't worth the tin that holds you together!"

"How fortunate we had nothing to do with their creation," Starscream sneers, finally able to be sarcastic.

"Retreat!" Megatron retorts, shoving him down the hill. "Stunticons, merge and form Menasor! Get Prime!"

With pleasure.

_I'm so ashamed, I've been so mean_

Megatron flew behind us and watched in amusement as we got pelted. Tracks and those three Lamborghinis launched their missiles at us, breaking Menasor apart into a heap. He cracked up at the sight of us chasing after them as they scattered like the petro-rabbits they are. Then he disappeared, calling for my cohorts to let the Autobots have their way with us.

_I don't know how it got to this point_

It finally occurred to me that the Stunticons were now officially an abandoned endeavor, as far as Megatron was concerned. We didn't single-handedly defeat the Autobots, so we're expendable. He didn't even stick around to see what they'd do to us. I vowed that I'd show him. My sights fastened onto the yellow Autobot as he wheeled around to give his wounded compatriots some time. Before he could transform he's recyclable materials under my wheels. The white and red one was next.

_I always was the one with all the love_

It's a fantastic sensation, crushing things. I met the drawling fire truck head-on as he whined about the damage done on his 'buddy.' Guess who won that one.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" I heard a magnificent voice thunder down at me, like someone else's on the day I felt my optics light up for the first time. There he is.

"NO ONE is as great as me, so I'll have to settle for you," I snapped back.

"Too bad. Laserbeak is more your caliber," he snarled, engine gunning.

_You came along, I'm hunting you down_

He'd won every other chicken race, but that time was different. He was weakened from fighting Megatron, even though he'd won that brawl. Our leader's call for a retreat was good only in his admittance that he couldn't win against Prime, leaving the Autobot open for me. Megatron's sneer about us being worthless enough to leave behind clinched the deal. Optimus Prime reeled back quickly from my aggressive attack..

_Oh,_

_And like a sick domestic abuser looking for a fight_

_Oh_

_And all I wanted was the simple things_

_A simple kind of life_

_Oh_

I hate him so much. Megatron obsesses over where Optimus goes and what he does to the point of insanity. Worst of all, he's right to monitor him. This is a truck who does everything right. I always lose the struggle to be better than him, and I'm sick of it. He's not so tough. Just because he's been around longer, and leads an army, doesn't make him a walking incarnation of Primus. I am the best truck warrior, not him. He must die, and by my hand. I smashed his front end in and watched him try to transform. It was pitiful to watch, so I high-kicked him hard in the sidecab and watched him go down.

_If we met tomorrow for the very first time_

_Would it start all over again?_

_Would I try to make you mine?_

In some alternate universe I have defeated Optimus Prime in the most excruciating way possible. I bring Megatron his head, claiming myself as the new leader of the Decepticons. No one can stand in the way of the one mech who defeated the only Autobot worth all of this trouble.

_I always thought I'd be a mom_

Decepticon ruler Motormaster. It still sounds good. I peered over Optimus Prime's inert body cautiously. He was not moving. Just to make sure I did it right, I fired a few rounds into his body. It felt good. Very good.

_Sometimes I wish for a mistake_

Too good. I ran out of ammo and switched to my fists, demanding him to die. Once he's gone I'm the one they'll fear. Megatron will only be a matter of time.

_The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get_

His fist meets my jaw when I couldn't see it coming, knocking me over. No. Not that easily. Enraged, I tried to get up. He has to _die_. Doesn't he get it? I have to get out of _his_ shadow or I'll fade away like a bad memory. All they'll remember of me is how I wasn't as good as _him_. Why won't he just lay down and DIE?

I had no idea I was crying. I'm the cruelest Decepticon on the force. Prowl shot me in the face during the fight and I didn't flinch. The Seekers tried to drop us off into the Grand Canyon once and I didn't care. We slaughtered an entire city of living beings and Starscream and I laughed our tailpipes off. I was sitting on the ground, having a temper tantrum. As I stood up I realized that I couldn't see him, I'm so blinded by wrath. That toaster. I'll get him. I hate him so much. I screamed for him to come out and fight.

He had his arms around me before I processed the action.

_You seem like you'd be a good dad_

And I cried. I was so mad that I couldn't stop; it was humiliating and frustrating, and all I wanted to do was destroy everyone in my path but all I could do was stand there and howl. They will suffer. Megatron will suffer. Prime will suffer. I had to gain control of myself first, but the red shoulder in front of me was so reassuring and unconditionally sympathetic it caused a fresh flow of optic fluid. How mortifying.

He patted me on the back and told me I'd be all right.

_Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life_

It was too much. I had to get away from him before this angry hatred melted away completely and I admitted something I'd regret later. How did he know I wanted, _needed_ to have someone tell me I'm worth something? Slag him! He'll pay for this! I said as much as I jerked away and back up, yelling that he must be desperate to be reaching out for a Decepticon. What did he keep those Dinobots around for, anyway, if he wanted me? I hurled other insults but I don't remember any of them. He looked at me with pity in his optics. It inflamed my rage and broke my spark at the same time. I wasn't what he hoped I was. I wasn't what I _thought_ I was. I hate us both.

_And how'd I get so faithful to my freedom?_

_A selfish kind of life_

"Are you coming or not?" demanded Thundercracker from above. "I swear, you wheelers are the dumbest branch of the army." This is mild compared to the usual 'banter.' Wildrider was the only other who hasn't retreated. I glared at Optimus. "This isn't over," was the only thing I could think of saying to him, transforming andhurtling past whileclipping one of the finger joints from his hands off. It didn't help.

* * *

_When all I ever wanted was the simple things_

_A simple kind of life_

Bored and sick of the Stunticons, Megatron put us in the middle of the desert so that we didn't constantly remind him of his failed experiment. We've heard from him exactly twice in the last year.

_A simple kind of life_

Dirge flew overhead once. Or was it Thrust? Dead End would know. He's not around much. None of them are, since they'd rather comb the desert for nothing than listen to me. When I get bored, I torture the passing nomadic herds to death, just to hear some horrified screams.

_A simple kind of life_

The existence is lonely and processor-numbing, but there is relief in no longer having to worry about how disappointed Megatron will be in our most recent failure. There are no other trucks out here. It gives me a false sense of domination, to not have to concentrate on how both leaders will surpass me at everything they do.

_A simple kind of life_

The fantasy continues, this time with even more brutal destruction wrought upon that degrading Prime. Except...

_A simple kind of life _

Sometimes, and I don't like to admit it, but in my fantasy he doesn't die. He looks at me with those sympathetic optics and I can feel the reassurance that I _will_ be remembered as something more than his mirror image. I then set him free, and he pats me on the shoulder. That's all I allow.

_A simple kind of life _

The fingertip was embedded into my grill. No one can see it, but I know it's there. On those even rarer occasions I take it out and look at it, and think about how close an obsession can overtake you, to the point where you lose yourself.

_A simple kind of life _

We were called to Charr after the great battle. When I heard Prime was dead at Megatron's hand instead of my own, I knew my failure was complete. I took the fingertip out and threw it on the ground, crushing it with my foot.

_A simple kind of life _

The tears came anyway.

_A simple kind of life..._


	6. Shut Up

I was listening to a certain Black Eyed Peas song and a thought popped into my head that was so silly I had to 1) pull over and laugh, since I was driving and 2) share it.

* * *

"Sothisisearth,huh?Ithoughtitwouldbealotbiggerforsomereasonlikethatplanetwewenttolastcycle-rememberthatone,HotRod?"

They had been on earth for five minutes, in BATTLE no less, and already Blurr was shooting off extraneous commentary. Arcee, head in one pained hand, fabricated some excuse regarding her finding Springer and left Hot Rod alone with the chattering blue Autobot. Hot Rod mentally noted that Arcee would find something unpleasant waiting for her the minute they got settled.

Unpleasant like Blurr. As he babbled on about how weird earth was Optimus Prime had managed, with the new Autobots' assistance, to end the vicious plot to bring Trypticon to this planet. All while Blurr talked.  
"Whatdoyouthinkthebasewillbelike?Isitreallyagiantshipinarockormaybeitsabigcityormaybenoneoftheabove.NoneoftheaboveisastrangechoicewhomadeitupIwonder?"

"Don't know." Hot Rod was relieved there had been a pause to wait for a reply. He was still stuck with Blurr; Ultra Magnus rode ahead with Optimus Prime, Springer and Arcee were nowhere to be found, and Kup was getting to know some of the local guys. Blurr was so excited he was talking even faster than usual.

From behind, a yellow and red set of twin vehicles dashed past Hot Rod and his unwelcome addition. "Move, bitch!" one of them called. Close behind was a blue car, yelling at them to "Take that back, you cheaply painted tin cans!" Hot Rod would have loved to join the chase but they were gone too soon and Blurr, a faster car than ANY of them, would have followed, babbling as profusely as he did now. It wold have been embarrassing.

"Wow!Iwonderwhatmadethemwanttodothat!Wecouldcatchthem,rightHotRod?I'msurewecould!Let'stry!Thoseslagheapswon'tknowwhathit'em!"

"Let's wait 'til we know who they are before we insult them," Hot Rod suggested wearily. The minute they were at Autobot base he PRAYED there would be relief from this torment.

No such luck. Things were still chaotic as accommodations were ironed out. Ultra Magnus disappeared in meetings, Kup was not back yet, and Springer and Arcee refused to materialize. Not knowing anyone else, Hot Rod walked around the ark with a pained expression on his face, one cheerfully ignored by a nice but clueless chattering blue Autobot.

"Sowhatdoyouwanttodofirst?Wecouldgoexploreormeetthelocalsorcatchupwiththoseguyswewantedtorace-"

From around the corner, what Hot Rod had originally assumed was an echo, came the two guys from earlier…trailed by someone talking just as fast and saying pretty much the same nonsense as Blurr.  
"-orwecould…" They stared at the other, steps ceasing at the same pace as their vocalizers, until both had stopped cold.

Silence! Golden, perfect, BEAUTIFUL silence! The staring continued until their companions caught on to the situation. The red one nudged the yellow one, both grinning sardonically.

"That's Bluestreak," the yellow one said.

Hot Rod jerked his head to his dumbfounded blue associate. "Blurr."

Nothing. The staring continued for so long it became apparent that five is a crowd.

"I think we should let you two get acquainted," the red one suggested. "We'll see you later, Blue." Both hurried away before the spell was broken.

"I'll be in the commissary," Hot Rod called to Blurr, making a hasty exit as well.

The two never noticed. Without a sound, Blurr offered his hand to Bluestreak, who accepted it eagerly, and both walked the same direction, never saying a word.


	7. I Think I Love You Too

_Ba, ba ba ba _

_ba-ba ba ba ba_

_ba ba ba ba baaaaaa._

It was flooding his laboratory; signaling to everyone and their creator that someone, somewhere, wanted attention. The NOISE had awoken him from a sound period offline (his first in almost a month).

"Right in the middle of a breakthrough," he muttered, not willing to admit he'd been lazy. Starscream WAS willing to rationalize the sleep was a well-deserved break from Megatron's tyrannical demands for a better ion cannon, which he'd be on the receiving end of if he didn't hurry and stop that noise.

_I think I love you. (I think I love you)_

He knew where it was coming from. The difficult part was getting there. Several places in these halls hid motion sensors, weight alarms, unnoticed cameras, and Megatron's personal quarters (he could wake up to the sound of fish swimming past his wall). To make the situation worse, that infernal music continued to blare throughout the Decepticon base sound system.

_I think I love you. (I think I love you)_

The Seeker's pace accelerated as he heard a door behind him open and a grumbling Thrust demanding to know what was going on. Starscream ignored him, using anti-gravity to move faster towards his target. If Thrust were awake, it wouldn't take long for the others to be in the same state.

* * *

When the personality components of the Combaticons had been reinstated, there had been an extra; being the practical-minded Decepticon he was, Starscream hid the component to bring out at a later time. Later came when the Air Commander uncovered a triple-changer plot to build another for an unholy triumvirate. Instead of retribution for the double-cross they had performed on him many years ago, Starscream aided in their endeavor with his spare personality piece in order to steal any sense of honor their offspring might have for his creators. Octane, torn between those he belonged to and the one who had freed him, proved to be the master manipulator by keeping both alliances in the dark from each other until his affair with Starscream was terminated.

* * *

How no one had deduced that this was his signal to rouse his lover out of the laboratory and into the storage basement was beyond the Seeker's capacity to gauge his fellow soldier's intelligence. The noise increased in volume, prompting a faster velocity from the determined jet.

_HEY! I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure of,_

_A love there is no cure for._

_I think I love you, isn't that what life it made of?_

_So it worries me to say, I never felt this way._

It hadn't ended well. Octane, once groomed out of being the horrible bully withholding fuel into a smooth mastermind, had honed his craft _excessively_ well. Starscream saw few opportunities for maintaining contact with him once he realized the triple changer was double-dealing. One debacle with Astrotrain and Blitzwing was enough. The Seeker berated himself for _again_ forgetting logic and helping them as he arrived to the dank basement and the song belted its final chorus.

_HEY! I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure of,_

_A love there is no cure for._

_I think I love you, isn't that what life it made of?_

_So it worries me to say, I never felt this way._

Although there was enough light to discern shapes, it was still difficult to find the human-sized tape player connected to the main monitor amongst all of the wrecked doomsday machines and failed energon collectors. (Megatron wanted to throw them out but the Constructicons pitched fits at the idea of their hard-earned equipment rusting under the elements.) The appliances were scattered in haphazard piles as though Scavenger desired a labyrinth more than a collection of potential recycling accouterment. After shooting the music box Starscream peered around the piles, expecting the worst kind of surprise, like a smirking Megatron or taunting cassettes. They would get caught sooner or later-that had been Starscream's key fear and the driving force behind disengaging himself from Octane-and when they DID get caught, there would be no mercy.

He was in front of the Seeker before his appearance registered in Starscream's database. Handsome, grinning, and practically begging to be shot with a null ray for his stupid insolence. Well, why not?

"Ow! What was THAT for?" Octane demanded once he'd regained his bearings.

"I told you to never summon me again, fool!" Starscream replied, throwing the purple and black mech against a convenient ray gun and smothering the white face with his own gray. The tirade continued as the pleasant exercise lingered. "Just (gasp) what are you trying to do, (mm) get us KILLED?"

Octane allowed a contemptuous laugh before shoving his commanding officer away. "Go at me like that and they will." Starscream had floated into the basement with the grace and insidious intent of an angel of Hell, making only the noise from his overactive vocalizer detectable. This was why Megatron's second in command always arrived after the triple changer; Octane could be in a room the size of a planet and still find a way to crash into something.

He was running into things again, but not he way he'd hoped, thanks to Starscream's fist. '_Get your bearings, then kick his afterburners_' he reminded himself, annoyed it was taking him this long to shush the Air Commander's furious shrieking. Even when he was livid, the Seeker was cute. Cute in that "let's see what kind of mental torture I can inflict" kind of way, not that wussy Autobot "I want to hold your hand and admire the moonlight" philosophy they all shared. He ought to know, after a disastrous attempt to woo Springer.

Octane staggered into the lone light that could make its way past the looming hulks of metal and searched the blackness around him, soft lips in a slightly crooked smile as he spread his arms out in that appealing way he knew made the other mech shiver, calling tenderly: "I figured you missed me."

Snort.

"I missed _you_."

Another involuntary expulsion of sound burst forth, denoting disdain. He was off to Octane's right.

"C'mon." The triple changer confidently eased his way towards the noise, Starscream's red optics barely glowing enough to be a beacon. "It's _me_."

"Thus the null ray," Starscream retorted, blasting Octane again. As that very fine skidplate slid across the room the white face displayed a naughty look of playful surprise, as though he'd anticipated such an attack (did that mean he wanted it?) but was going along with the ruse. He was so purple...and black...and white...and his helmet pointed in the right directions, and when you held his shoulders down while you kissed him he groaned and if you shoved your knees over to force him to spread his legs farther he gasped in a way that seemed to beg for more and when you felt his energy field it was like ice on an excruciatingly hot day it was so exciting it was so addictive-

Starscream was on top of him, listening to his name being loudly heralded. Exciting was hardly the word he should be using. When he was really good Octane would practically sing, but the Seeker was not up to par, being out of practice. It would have been better if Starscream didn't hate the mech under him so much. Nostalgia had pulled him into the crosshairs and desire pulled the trigger, but the pain of reality jolted the jet to halt his advances abruptly and regain his senses. This activity was no doubt being observed somewhere, making the mech in his arms a liability that must be attended to immediately. As the Seeker jumped off of Octane he pondered what to do with him. Kill him, let him go, reconfigure his processor to forget...this liaison was getting more dangerous by the minute, and Starscream regretted being so reckless with his self-control. He would not finish, no matter how energon pump-stoppingly GOOD it felt to have his neck nibbled on again.

"_Now_ what?" Octane demanded. Starscream was a tease first and a lover second. He might have to get out his gun.

"Nobody told you to sit up," Starscream growled, trying to buy more time to sort this out. He hadn't rendezvoused with this mech for ages, and although the unmet need to bury his face into the purple mech's shoulder had been a daily internal battle Starscream had successfully detached himself from the want.

Until today. Octane ignored him, sitting up with a suggestive smile and a come-hither inflection as he asked if Starscream were to return, or would he have to start firing. He was hit with the null ray for a third time as a reply.

"Ugh." The pain was getting to him enough to merit Phase 2. "I wish you'd quit doing that. I'm ready to get us back together and you're not playing fair."

"We're not reuniting." Frustration sunk into the Seeker like the pressing of a lid onto a brimming container of liquid. Octane and his ridiculously romantic ideas. As though they could ignore Megatron's thoroughly enforced mandate that all personal contact was for their Decepticon leader only, especially with the ubiquitous minions of Soundwave's everywhere. Was he really that asinine?

"It's like this..." He was on all fours, approaching the jet, optics close to pleading. "Ever since you stopped fighting with me, it's like I'm searching for something absent in my life. We had an agreement. I keep expecting you to help me beat the slag out of Megatron in some surprise move at every turn, but when I look for you you're already in the sky. When did you forget about what we planned? We wanted to take Megatron down, Starscream. I know we both _still_ do. You're the only one who can help me do it. I _need_ you."

"Exposing your ulterior motive this early in the game is foolish," Starscream declared, automatically wanting to back away from the approaching mech but refusing to show that kind of discomfort to his enemy, the ally. "It shows me what an abysmal pupil you were."

Octane's pace never slowed. "I'd blame the mentor first, but I'm not that kind of mech." His chuckle descended into a low growl as he looked up at Starscream like a wolf about to tackle a moose. "Come on, _master_, I think you need to teach me a lesson."

Why oh why did the memory of Megatron berating him for his impulsiveness always come up at the most inconvenient of moments? His hand, so...white (Starscream loved that shade too much) and magnificent, mocked him as it beseechingly stretched out to pull its owner to his feet. Automatically he reached for it, only to be pulled down in the most ignoble manner, on his back and pushing on the triple changer with all of his might and failing, largely due to the spark-shocking caress the mech above him performed on his wings. It flared his energy field into a cauldron of red desire, swirling and moving and occasionally flickering up to osculate the smirking triple changer above him. Starscream could control this...he knew he could. All he had to do was concentrate. If only Octane wasn't so seductively stroking his air intakes with the practiced hand of a Decepticon who'd done it a million times before.

"If you want me this bad there is no force in the universe to keep you away," he hissed into the audios of a grunting Starscream. "You're not fooling anybody." Pausing to consider this, Octane laughed condescendingly. "Except for yourself. Astrotrain used to say no planet ever lost its orbit underestimating your stupidity."

"He _would_ say that!" Starscream managed to gasp, desperate for any kind of distraction. Octane wouldn't allow a distraction, leaning in and kissing his mentor with a light lapping motion that tickled the roof of the Seeker's mouth. "Get da ding owt befowe I BITE i' off."

His threats went unheeded as the purple mech probed Starscream's mouth harder, lips completely covering the gray ones below him to prevent any more unwanted ranting. The Seeker liked to hear his partner make noise; thus the groan that vibrated from Octane's vocalizer into Starscream's throat was enthusiastically met. The ivory fingers, wrapped around light blue wrists, snaked their way into the palm to tickle them the right way before tapping down Starscream's arm and up to his face. A satisfied purr elicited from the Air Commander in response, to his pupil's delight.

"So what do you say?" the mech asked the stunned jet below him. He hoped to hear his four favorite words as a response.

"Get on your back," Starscream ordered.

Oh sweet Primus.

_I think I love you_

Although the lighting was terrible and the sound had to be kept off, Blitzwing was transfixed. Both Decepticons moved with a desperate fluidity of two mechs frantic to beat the other in a winner-take-all power struggle, except that they were getting each other off instead. Very arousing. Octane could make this _face_ that appeared as though what Starscream was doing took him into another plane of existence.

"There's nothing in here," Astrotrain reported glumly, tossing aside the last flotsam from Starscream's lab after their intense search. "Blasted geek must have it hidden in his room."

"Do you think we have enough time?" Blitzwing asked, visor still glued to the dark figures on the monitor screen groping their way towards ecstasy.

"No. His chambers are on the other side of the base, and it looks like they're almost done-" he didn't get to finish the thought before Blitzwing had tackled him.

"Not for _that_, moron." They might as well give up the search and enjoy what was left of Octane's distraction. Astrotrain relished the challenge, as well as the danger of getting caught in the laboratory searching for secret energon stashes/weapons. Octane could hold Starscream at bay; the kid was good. Blitzwing was better. Astrotrain's last coherent impulse was how disappointing it was that they couldn't find anything to aid in their coup d'etate, except for some interesting blackmail material. That camera was worth the unfavorably biased negotiations with Swindle.

_I think I love you_

Cool as mentholated snow, and just as pleasant a tingle, Octane's energy field mingled with Starscream's as it had so many times before. Something in the familiarity of the performance, as though it were an old, cherished routine; as they finished the electricity reverberated throughout the Seeker as the aftereffects bounced and simmered inside of him, in that comforting way they always had. He was disappointed it was over so soon. Perhaps this was a timely occurrence, since any more of Octane's exhilarating tremors and it would be just as it had been before the breakup, with Starscream on the brink of saying something he preferred not to reveal.

Octane regained his orientation and carefully began inspecting himself for any telltale red, blue, and silver marks. There were a few, but nothing a quick chemical shower couldn't erase. He glanced at Starscream, who was trying to stand up and failing. With an embarrassed laugh, the Air Commander slipped back down to embrace his pupil once more. Starscream's mirth seemed excessive, as though he were over-energized. Octane smiled thinly, almost as though he didn't get the joke. His partner's grin was wider as the attached blue null ray nudged against the triple changer's throat.

"Now that you've had YOUR way, it is time for MINE." He wasted no time allowing for suspense. "What did your superiors want from my lab?"

"I don't know what you're-ugh!" The butt of the blaster dug into the sensitive chin area that a few moments ago had been dusted with kisses.

"Poor Octane. You were somewhat convincing but your performance needs work. Now tell me what you know." He maneuvered his face into the optics of his squirming victim as he smirked triumphantly, words slowly enunciated. "Bear in mind I did not become second-in-command of the Decepticon army by showing mercy."

"They're looking for weapons," he scratched, refusing to allow any of the letdown he felt into his response. Starscream was not as stupid as the other two had tried to argue he was, and Octane had tried his best to do his part in their endeavor to outmaneuver him but they lost. If the triple changer didn't attempt an escape he'd be another pile in the mass of mess that surrounded the two.

That scornful laugh he gave, hatefully high-pitched, rattled Octane's solenoids. "They won't find them." Starscream stood up, optics and blaster never leaving the supine figure below him. "Even in defeat, you are-" he stopped himself, quickly changing the subject. "Where is the camera?"

"Behind you," Octane supplied, turning his face away in complete humiliation. Swindle must have ratted them out.

He did not glance to detect its location, instead shaking his head sadly. "You used your only leverage against me for the last time, old friend. Too bad." The whole monologue dripped with sarcasm. "I'm ready to get us back together and you're not playing fair. sigh. Give my regards to the other two." The last two words were barely detected but Octane caught them all the same. "My dear."

He was hit again, this time with the power boosted high enough to render him incapacitated. It whined in preparation for another shot. The null ray's sharp pain stung with the salt of Starscream's triumphant exit as he floated out of the basement with the same evil sneer he'd come in with, singing softly off-key.

_I think I love you..._


	8. Cat and 'Mus

Seiberwing told me to write this. So I did. Set in TF: Energon.

Snow, snow everywhere; no relief in sight, not even any color to break the monotonous white on white and gray that surrounded Snow World like an insulating blanket. Rodimus shifted his weapon uncomfortably as he and Prowl rounded another corner of the energon tower, scouting for torn metal from the windstorm that had subsided a few hours ago. Although cold did not bother him, the cumbersome weapon coupled with the few tools they had to carry _did._

"Why can't the Omnicons be doing this?" grumbled Prowl. He knew the answer already: they were mining the energon and making repairs as fast as they could but were not miracle workers. The higher-ups proved what great leaders they were by volunteering to help with minor repairs and anything else that could be done by anyone with a functioning brainwave.

"OW! OW! Thop!"

That stupid kid never missed a cue in Rodimus' processor. The mech looked up to spot Ironhide and the human Kicker approaching at a syncopated pace; one loping, one racing as fast as he could.

"I thold oo to thop!"

Ironhide halted, glaring at the tiny being below him. "I _told_ you not to do that, but you had to be stupid!"

Prowl saved Rodimus the trouble by asking what happened, regretting the answer he received.

"Kicker didn't believe me when I told him my metal was cold enough to freeze objects to, so he put his ton on it!"

"Tongue," the human corrected, making it sound like 'ton.'

"That's what I said."

Rodimus did not believe that the pair merely had an argument. "What were you _really_ doing?" he demanded caustically, optics never leaving his work. The two eyed each other but said nothing. "Hold still." He fired his soldering iron until the mech's leg was warm enough to separate from the small appendage.

"OW! Now ith burndt!" The human moaned, sticking his face into the snow as the wind picked it up to whirl about them menacingly.

"Shut up!" Ironhide yelled. "I told you not to do that to me until we were inside."

The truth comes out. Rodimus was ready to shoot a knowing glance at Prowl when the human below them began sputtering. It took a few tries, but eventually he warbled out something discernable.

"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"

"What?" Ironhide growled, flinching at the kick his companion issued on the rapidly-cooling leg.

"I DID! I did tee a puddy tat! Wook! Over dere!"

To their left a small swirl of white and gray snow flickered and merged until a purple visor stared as it tore apart the spot they'd repaired moments ago. Snowcat's fingers clawed away at the metal, exposing the delicate circuitry to the harsh elements around them.

"HEY! Get away from that!" yelled Prowl, banging on the wall and making a move towards the Decepticon. Snowcat jumped back and slalomed away. "Let's get him!"

"No, wait," Rodimus protested. "It could be a trap. You three stay here and wait for whatever the Decepticons are coming after, while I go ahead and chase Snowcat down.."

"Aww, man! I want to go wit' you!" Kicker's tongue was still sore but at least now he could enunciate better.

"No, it's too dangerous. I'll radio you if I get lost. Transform!" Eagerly pushing off, Rodimus kicked his tires in to high gear and pushed ahead, ignoring the protests of the others behind him. '_I'll get that Decepticon faster without them,'_ he rationalized.

Kicker clenched his fist in annoyance. Wasn't that just like Rodimus to recklessly burn rubber for the sole reason to chase down ONE errant Decepticon without remembering to turn on his radio before leaving? Five minutes of calling and there was STILL no response from the red truck.

"We gotha go get 'im!" he declared, turning to Ironhide. His only feedback was a puzzled expression and a reiteration of what Kicker had already heard. "I thon't CARE! Thranthform! Leth's go while Rodimuth' tracths are thtill freth!"

"Transform!" Ironhide called, REALLY wishing he didn't follow Kicker's orders so often. If only he could find someone else who liked to wash him…

"I'll keep trying to establish contact!" called Prowl, wondering what kind of trouble they were all about to get themselves into.

* * *

With the white sky and snow eddies it was darn near impossible to find him, but somehow Rodimus picked up the tracks Snowcat left behind: tiny, dainty impressions that seemed too fragile for his kind of vehicle. Now the Autobot was getting somewhere.

'_I'll get you yet, Snowcat,'_ Rodimus cackled. He was glad no one could hear him.

Incline! Rodimus gunned his engines to come up the hill, in time to see a flash of purple indicating that the warrior was closer than he appeared. Then he was gone. Rodimus could swear he saw him crawl into a hole, but that couldn't be right. After scanning the area (Oops! His radio was off.) he found a larger entrance, one to better accommodate the Autobot as he crept in, ready for anything and gun drawn.

He didn't bother addressing his prey; that would have been a futile exercise that only gave away his position better. Instead Rodimus crept along the cave wall, inch by inch, until the full force of a crouching Snowcat pounced on him.

"Ooodie oodie oodie!" he yowled victoriously. "You didn't expect that, did you?"

"Get your paws off of him!" cried Ironhide from behind as Kicker leapt from his cab. 'Transform!"

The click of Snowcat's missiles spoke otherwise. "You'd better get back to base. _You're needed._"

Static broke in on Ironhide's radio, commanding all Autobots back to the energon tower. The Decepticons were attacking.

"Move," Snowcat hissed as his projectiles aimed for the two standing in the cave's doorway.

"I can handle him!" Rodimus intercepted, "You go!"

"But-"

That kid never knew when to shut up! "GET OUT OF HERE!"

Both sprinted away, promising help as soon as they could. Once as they were out of site Snowcat rubbed his head against the Autobot's shoulder invitingly.

"Mmmmm," he purred. "I'm going to play before I destroy you." His grip tightened as the mech below him gasped in anticipation. Hands went everywhere, tryng to find the vulnerable places that drove them crazy. Neither could stop giggling.

"You wouldn't be so deprived if you came around more than once in awhile," Rodimus scolded, caressing the mech's head with his hand. It was still hard to believe something so cute could be such a destructive killer.

"I come and go whenever I feel like. Get used to it," the white figure replied, kneading his fingers into the flame-patterned chassis as they continued nuzzling each other. "You should come and visit."

They couldn't hold in the laughter. It had been a long-running joke that all Rodimus had to do was ring Unicron's doorbell and ask Megatron for Snowcat's hand: how difficult would it be?

"We could use you," he pressed. "You'd be the best warrior…we…you'd be second…to…" his visor flickered in joy as the cold red energy field leapt out to meet the hot blue one below him.

Rodimus barely hid a smirk. Snowcat had yet to realize that _this_ Autobot, a decorated war hero, lead his own troops and didn't answer to Prime (unless to put up a good front), which was a far cry from the hierarchy _he_ belonged to, where you only got as far as your leader's whims carried you.

"I could never-uh-be as good as you," he returned, feeling Snowcat's engine vibrate in joy. "No point in-ahhh-competing!"

The Decepticon above him would have smiled if he could. Rodimus said that every time. He was not afraid of a little competition: their clandestine races had shown him that. The Autobot did not want to change factions any more than Snowcat did. They played this game at each meeting, never changing their perspective. It would take a miracle to bring them together permanently. Snowcat didn't want anything enduring, he was sure his companion didn't either, judging by the way he aimed during battles. This was purely for the rush, nothing more, nothing less. Speaking of a rush….

"OOOOOODIE ODIE ODIE!" he shrieked, arching his back. It felt so good. The one underneath him seemed to agree.

"Rodimus! Come in! This is Optimus Prime!"

It hurt too good to let go, but already the mech could feel his friend's cold energy field retreat from the kickback of sensory overload. The two were not supposed to entwine, due to their dissimilar constitutions, but that kind of sweet agony was catnip to Rodimus. It felt bad and good at the same time, a feeling he had assumed dead in his numbed spark. Snowcat batted it back to life.

"Rodimus! This is Optimus Prime! Do you read me! We're activating the energon tower! Repeat! We are activating the energon tower!"

The Autobot sighed. "This is Rodimus. I read you loud and clear. Snowcat is retreating."

Snowcat nodded. "I'd better scat. See ya next time, Roddy. Roddy-oodie-oodie-oodie!" He was out of sight just as the red beams of the energon tower assaulted the entire planet.

Rodimus transformed and rolled out.


	9. Forever Yours

One of the greatest 80s bands of all time is Journey. I was inspired by songs from their greatest hits album, which is referenced in this story a lot . The songs are: Faithfully, Separate Ways, Wheel in the Sky, and Don't Stop Believin.'

And I like Jazz and Prowl. I named my kittens after them.

* * *

Night 1, Week 1, Month 1

Jazz knew something was up the minute he walked into their chambers. It didn't take much to figure it out: Prowl was sitting in his chair calmly reading a datapad, the music was off, and the lights were blazing brightly overhead. This was a normal scenario on a typical day, except that the aura of the room was completely wrong. A few other minor clues gave away the Datsun's discomfort. Prowl jumped slightly upon his entrance instead of ignoring him. He actually greeted Jazz, different from his habit of waiting for the saboteur to speak first. He watched his bondmate wander around the room in search of a missing blaster piece, a variant from letting Jazz go about his business before a wordless departure. The room seemed bigger, cleaner, less cluttered too. It flashed in Jazz's processor and was disregarded, seeing as how he hadn't spent that much time around here lately. Maybe Prowl had finally started using that e-bay account Code Red set up for him.

All of these things pooled around Jazz's mind like the water that dripped from his undercarriage after a rainstorm. He paid no heed to them until the strongest clue emerged with the strategist asking him to sit down.

"I require an audience with you," he stated simply, voice and face flat.

Jazz nodded, sitting down. He wasn't sure what Prowl wanted, but he had a good guess or two. Probably he was in trouble again for some silly, minute bit of unauthorized fun he'd had but the other officers were upset at him for doing. Well, sue Jazz for wanting to keep morale up. Everything he did ticked off Prowl anyway. For the last few decades the pair had drifted apart. Life on earth was stressful, a tumultuous game of waiting for Megatron to attack innocent human beings while Optimus Prime struggled to re-connect with the Cybertronians they had left behind. The Autobot leader relied more on his higher-ups, demanding a great deal of their time and energy, and making the small rift that had begun when Jazz and Prowl woke up from their hibernation widen.

'It's my fault I made him mad,' Jazz thought for a moment as Prowl took an agonizingly slow time to gather the datapads he was clearing from his pristine desk. The accountability issue had been deposited on Jazz more than once, by others, but today Jazz decided to blame himself.

Who really was to blame? It depended on your line of logic. Jazz had been like a 'Con tape in a power plant on this planet, absorbing as much of earth life as he could and taking his existence one moment at a time. Everyone loved him, and he loved them back, and nothing was better than the fun he had while trying to survive a nasty war. Every time he turned around though, Prowl was standing over him with his arms crossed and a frustrated sigh escaping from his lips as he scolded Jazz for taking far too many liberties with the troops.

For Prowl, although there was a proper time for fun in every mech's life, keeping an army together and out of harm's way was a full-time occupation. Jazz did not seem to grasp the enormity of their situation down here. Whenever the strategist looked up from being elbow-deep in death and destruction he could see his bondmate coordinating a practical joke that would encourage the kind of horseplay to get more killed. _Of course_, Prowl was _overreacting_, according to the miscreants aiding Jazz, but any rational mech knew better. One night their harsh words spilled out from the protection of office doors into the hallway for everyone to hear.

The tiffs and disagreements, usually ending with playful kissing, became engorged offenses that carried grudges too long and dried out the well of affection. They were drifting apart, but neither wanted to admit it. Instead Jazz spent more of his spare evenings with the Lamborghini brothers and Prowl either quietly read or did something else.

"I have considered our current cohabitation interminable." It was abrupt, like the pop of a tire over an unseen shard of broken glass. "I am moving out."

Jazz's vocalizer should have worked. His last checkup proclaimed him in perfect working order. He knew his AUDIOS were functional, for they just heard the impossible. Still, he sat there, inert, trying to ask Prowl to repeat what he just said and failing. All he could do was allow a blank stare, made more discomforting with his bland visor. Prowl decided to ignore him, standing up in preparation to find a new life for himself.

There was no reaction at all. Jazz continued his vacant look as Prowl tentatively groped about the Porsche's back in an awkward hug, their first contact in cycles. "You may tell the others whatever you wish," he said, thinking that a brave gesture in light of the vicious Autobot rumor mill that might grind him to salt. "I'll be staying with a friend until I can relocate." This was already-saturated ark. It said to Jazz the unprocessable: Prowl had found someone he trusted enough to live with.

"It's Smokescreen, isn't it?" Prowl didn't react, walking out with a quiet click of the door, leaving Jazz in a far-too bright and a _much_ too quiet room, staring at the recharge plate they shared that gleamed with its recent cleaning.

Prowl lingered at the door and listened for any kind of reaction. Nothing. Jazz wasn't like that, anyway. Everything was a new adventure to him, an opportunity to look on the optimistic side of the situation. Jazz was good at that; it had been what attracted Prowl. (After awhile it became an irritation.) He would pull out of this, especially when the initial astonishment dissipated.

Smokescreen had been wonderful. He was sympathetic to Prowl's miserable plight, agreeing with the Datsun that although he had bonded with Jazz for the rest of his life, and they could not unbond their sparks, it did not mean he should continue to suffer for a mistake made a long time ago. They should go their separate ways. He did not suggest these things himself. He had asked Prowl questions, to clarify how Prowl felt about the situation, uncovering the dirt to show the fossilized bones underneath. Through Smokescreen Prowl could see what he needed to do to be happy.

He had gained favor from his therapist, too. Smokescreen claimed any relationship was unethical until Prowl offered to talk to Wheeljack, or even GEARS if he had to, if it allowed him to see this mech. Prowl was a good kisser, too. How could he resist?

The maroon and blue Datsun was reading a datapad as Prowl marched in, feeling strange about entering someone else's room without a particular task at hand. Instead he had a delighted smile to greet someone who was eagerly standing up while asking how it went.

"It was brief." Prowl didn't know what to compare it to, other than some scene from that "Waiting to Exhale" movie Carly made them all watch one night. When one of the humans discovered her bondmate was leaving her she did not react very well. All of the Autobots cried at the scene where she blew up her husband's car. Maybe that's what he felt…burned out. Tired. He sat down at the desk and waited for Smokescreen's hand to rest on his shoulder reassuringly. It never came; the psychologist smiled, muttered some platitudes, and turned back to finish reading.

Prowl was mildly disappointed. Well, he rationalized to himself, this was a different Autobot. They would get to know each other more as time progressed. The silence was deafening, anticipating the usual interruption of Jazz coming in with some crazy scheme, or turning on his music, or eagerly reaching for Prowl to pinion his arms as his mouth devoured his partner. These kinds of thoughts would not do. He should rest.

"I am depleted. Good-night." Smokescreen did not look up, nodding absent-mindedly.

Day 2, Week 1, Month 1

"Has anyone seen Jazz?"

Prowl looked up from the meeting minutes to see several Autobots staring at him. It was true; Jazz was not present, whereabouts unknown. Optimus Prime glanced at his second-in-command as Prowl disavowed knowing his former bondmate's whereabouts.

"You don't know?" Prime was confused. They lived together; Prowl should at least have a _vague_ idea where Jazz was.

"He hasn't told you, I see." The Autobots shook their heads, Ironhide's already thin layer of patience wearing thin. "Our relationship is terminated."

There was not much reaction to this. Prowl would have expected berating, or questions, or sympathy, anything other than several stymied expressions and Wheeljack bolting for the door. Optimus called the meeting to order by asking Ratchet about the improved tune-up method they could employ now that they had Cybertonium. Ratchet talked for a few minutes, surrendering the floor to Perceptor to allow himself an opportunity to sneak out to find Wheeljack.

When Optimus Prime had heard enough of Perceptor's talk, he asked Silverbolt for an update of the Aerialbots. His attention was far too immersed, his posture angled towards the young mech, as though he had to physically lean into him to hear what he was saying. Prowl noticed that every Autobot's head swiveled to the door when the slightest noise disrupted the quiet of the hall, except for Prime, who was forcing himself to pay attention to his underlings. Hound's report on munitions had no one's interest, not even the Jeep's, but he plowed on for an increasingly apathetic audience.

Wheeljack and Ratchet slipped in quietly with the sudden grace of a puff of air on the ocean. Hound concluded quickly and Prime asked if everything was all right.

"He's waiting for Prowl," Ratchet explained simply.

Optimus tilted his head at a twenty-five degree angle. "Waiting for him to do what?"

"That's all he said," Wheeljack stated, not looking at the Datsun as he spoke.

He could wait until it started snowing on the Ark again before Prowl acknowledged him. This was a bid to get attention, and Prowl vowed not to fall for it. Prime openly stared, obviously confused. After a moment of deliberation he declared the meeting adjourned and went to talk to Cosmos.

Prowl had work to do, but first he wanted to see what Smokescreen was up to. He found him outside, learning to play basketball with Tracks. He was terrible; double dribbling, letting the ball bounce off of his foot far too often, stepping over the free-throw line when he tried to shoot three pointers, and the biggest sin of all: traveling. Prowl kept his technical opinions to himself, allowing Tracks to guide him along. When he saw Prime's second-in-command he paused his instruction to see what he wanted. The Datsun told the Corvette to proceed, he merely wanted to see how Smokescreen was doing.

'Then it's true!' Tracks face exclaimed. Aloud, he merely accepted the black and white mech's statement and declared that the psychologist needed to put his left arm behind his back and try to dribble one-handed. Embarrassed, the other Datsun smiled sheepishly at his lack of rudimentary skills. He did not want his friend to see him like this, unlike a certain showoff who shall remain nameless. Too bad, Jazz was a great ballplayer-

Prowl realized he had other work to do and made an excuse to leave.

Night 2, Week 1, Month 1

Smokescreen came in to their chambers (it still felt strange calling it 'theirs'), clean and sweet-smelling. Prowl had been filling the time unpacking and was debating where to put the 'Excellence in Organization' award he'd won at the Cybertron Academy (they _retired_ the award because of him) when his new cohort greeted him.

"That is a nice luster you have acquired," Prowl complimented admiringly. Jazz only showered when Prowl complained.

"I wanted to look good," he replied, smiling broadly.

Disappointment flooded the award-clutching mech. "Are you going out?" That was the only reason (he shouldn't think that mech's name anymore) _he_ cleaned profusely.

Smokescreen put his arms around Prowl in a very tender embrace. "No," he replied, moving in to kiss him. "Why would I go out when the best is here?"

Day 7, Week 2, Month 3

Could there be any more of a glorious morning? Prowl hadn't gotten up off of the plate yet and he wanted to _fly_. Smokescreen cuddled next to him, smiling while offline, probably exhausted from their night of...well, describing it would be vulgar. Prowl hadn't felt this invigorated since-no, don't think about it, instead recall how humorous it was that both of their chevrons became tangled and Smokescreen used it as an excuse to do something Prowl had trouble picturing from an objective perspective.

"More," rumbled the mech on top of him, reaching for the object of his affection and chuckling with pride at procuring it. Prowl stifled an involuntary giggle. They were trying to navigate their chevrons again.

CLANK CLUNK CRASH!

"Slaggit, Jazz! What the frag is all your scrap doing out here?" Ratchet was so loud he sounded next to the reclining pair's audios. "PROWL!"

Smokescreen got to the door first. "What the-?"

EVERYTHING from Jazz's room was in the hallway: his stereo, the large framed desert pictures Sunstreaker drew for him, the medal the President of Mexico gave him for Valor, momentos of various exploits, the shard that was all that was left of his home on Cybertron, his blaster accouterment, CDs, datapads, spare visors, the shelving unit that held most of these objects, and a cactus with a story. Ratchet was holding his foot after tripping on the bubble machine Jazz bought on e-bay last summer. It insolently spit a plethora of sudsy air pockets as Ratchet cursed hard enough to melt the walls.

Prowl had been avoiding Jazz well enough for two and a half months; now he saw that this was fatuous. The mech was a force to be reckoned, especially when things weren't going his way, and now the Porsche was trying to get a point across that Prowl really didn't want to acknowledge. He crossed his arms across his chest to hide the blue scratch marks and coolly asked his bondmate, seated and against the wall cleaning a blaster, what the meaning of all of this was.

"I was waiting for you, and you never showed up. So I thought I'd make it easier by comin' over here. I couldn't leave all my stuff, though. In case I got bored." He put the gun down and offered a shocked Smokescreen an energon goodie. When he refused Jazz turned to offer the treat to the medic.

"Your diodes aren't _scrambled_, they're _fried_," the livid mech hissed as another cascade of bubbles swirled around his head. "I'm putting you on the _top_ of Wheeljack's CPU scan list." With that threat he turned and limped down the hallway grumbling loud enough to sound like Gears.

Prowl calculated the best method to attack this impediment. It was not illegal for Jazz to live in the corridors of the Ark, and in spite of Ratchet's failure to see Jazz's toy most of his belongings were not making the hallway a hazard for anyone travelling through. Jazz wasn't even blocking the door to Smokescreen's chambers, giving no legitimate excuse to send him away. They were both equal rank, which meant that only Prime could order the mech out of the hallway, and Prime hated in-fighting enough that they would both be punished...something Prowl did not see as an equitable trade-off for ridding himself of this nuisance only long enough for Jazz to plan another, more irritating attack. Smokescreen guessed Prowl must be trying several venues of reason, and if one hadn't sprung out by now then the least the colorful Datsun could do was buy some time while the black and white mech plotted. The bubble machine churned out another fanfare of colorful soapy balloons.

"He-ey...Jazz," Smokescreen began, squatting next to the seated mech. Jazz smiled back.

"How's it goin' Smokey?" he replied, as though they were conversing outside on a rock instead of amidst a miasma of stuff outside of Smokescreen's chambers while a bubble machine made the walls and floor slippery.

"I'm good." This was NOT the weirdest conversation he'd ever had, but it was close. "I was wondering how you got...that?" he motioned to the cactus, hoping a soft question might lead into more important ones.

Jazz chuckled. "That's a good story. Prowl an' I were drivin' back from a downtown fight with the Decepticons when we were got to talkin' about how jet names all have a noun and a verb in them. We started makin' them up, and Prowl came up with 'Cloudstreaker.' I said that sounded more like an Autobot name, and he kinda agreed, and then he ran over a glass bottle and busted a tire."

"I'd forgotten about that," Prowl announced, bewildered. He didn't know he was capable of forgetting things.

"We had to walk the rest of the way, which was cool, 'cause it wasn't that far, but when we almost got there we saw a cactus that was almost pecked to death by birds, so I dug it up and Prowl got Sideswipe to find a pot for it, and thanks to Teletraan-1 we found out how to save it, and we brought it back to life."

"You named it Cloudstreaker," Prowl added, sounding slightly dazed.

"Yep." Jazz smiled brightly at the Datsuns, who were both sorry that Smokescreen had asked that question. The psychologist decided to inquire about something else when Prowl beat him to it.

"Why are you here, Jazz?"

The mech tilted his head up so that his visor could meet the optics of the other, making Smokescreen feel like he was intruding on a private moment. "I promised I would never leave you." Prowl took a step backward, arms slipping down to show the telltale paint scrapes of another mech's passion. "That I would love you forever." Another step lead him into Smokescreen's room, white hands slowly moving up to touch the abrasions on his chevron. "I keep my promises." Prowl slammed the door. Jazz went back to cleaning his blaster, humming softly.

Smokescreen debated making a move. He had to do _something_. "Jazz? I –uh-thought Prowl broke up with you."

"Naaaaah." The mech laughed at the idea, voice rising in both pitch and volume. "He's just going through a phase, that's all."

Night 4, Week 3, Month 6

Prowl didn't want to go back there.

Jazz had the entire Autobot army on his side. There was a party in the hallway in front of Smokescreen's door throughout the week with everyone but Optimus Prime coming by to see how Jazz's vigil was going. Energon was served, music played, jokes were told, a betting pool was established as to who and when either would cave into this battle of wills, all to the amusement of anyone who joined the crowd. Sideswipe had them chanting "Prowl is a slut" at one point in time until Jazz declared it bad form. He called it that _after_ he had stopped laughing.

Optimus Prime came by the main room while his second-in-command angrily pounded away at Teletraan's keyboard. "I noticed the gathering in the corridor. Is this Jazz's idea of a morale-booster?"

The Carrier of the Matrix had a weird sense of humor. He may be unapproachable to most of them but the gossips in this army had qualms with neither protocol nor discretion. Prowl had heard Wheeljack telling an entire meeting room's worth of Autobots what was going on, including the truck next to him. "No, Prime. Jazz is convinced that he can win me back via irritation."

Optimus smothered a laugh. "When I asked him all he said was that Breaking Up Is Hard To Do."

Prowl sighed in frustration and returned to hammering the keyboard with both hands like a volatile musician at the piano. "I don't love him anymore. Why is that so difficult to process?"

Prime placed a comforting blue hand on his strategist's shoulder. "Perhaps it is because your lack of faith in your bonding vows is too disturbing an impulse to recognize. What other aspects of our lives do we have to distrust if we cannot accept the most steadfast and sacred of these?"

Stupid Matrix. Prowl had been thinking the same thing, but had allowed every other possibility to enter his processor at the same time to flood him so that he did not have to acknowledge that one truth. "Bonding is not the most sacred institution we have, Prime."

"I find that impossible to believe."

"_I_ cannot believe that I'm doomed to eternity to someone of whom my regard has diminished significantly, merely because I thought I was in love."

"Why did you do it then?"

He was right. Prowl saved his work and went to Smokescreen's.

Jazz was nowhere in sight. Instead, the Lamborghini brothers were there, claiming they were Jazz's messengers while the Porsche ran an errand.

"Prowl! Baby! How could you? Don't I mean anything to you!" Sideswipe howled histrionically.

Sunstreaker held a sign that said 'B mine agen.' Uncomfortable, the golden brother scowled and crossed his arms, dropping his misspelled placard. "What he said."

The strategist was not about to take harassment, especially if it were by proxy from Jazz through _these_ idiots. "I will see you tomorrow, when you report for oil change duty," he announced, knocking on Smokescreen's door and waiting for a reply.

"Jazz said you'd say that," Sideswipe announced, producing a datapad. "That's why he told us to give you _this_."

It was succinct: 'Please excuse Sunstreaker and Sideswipe from oil change duty. They have something else to do instead. I can't tell you what it is, it's a secret. Love, Jazz.'

Smokescreen opened his door, puzzled. "Prowl, you have the key number. Why do you keep knocking?"

The Datsun pushed his friend inside as the Lamborghini brothers snickered. "I've been preoccupied," he replied brusquely, showing his fellow second-in-command's note. Smokescreen read it and chuckled.

"He's got your processor pattern, doesn't he?" the psychologist laughed, reaching for the black and white mech.

A Deceptitraan could figure him out if given enough time. Prowl moved away from the other Datsun and towards the recharge plate alone. "I am depleted. Good-night."

Day 2, Week 3, Month 8

The dream was Jazz floating in white space, reciting some kind of earth movie that he'd forced Prowl to view with him.

"You know, there's a million fine looking women in the world, dude. But they don't all bring you lasagna at work. Most of 'em just cheat on you."

There was a mild swirl of white clouds as Prowl felt something attack his chest area, as though Megatron had shot him. Jazz tilted his head expectantly. "Adventure? Excitement? A Jedi craves not these things."

The pain was too uncomfortable, recalling the time his acid pellet gun exploded on him. "Jazz, stop," Prowl commanded.

"You're Chasing Amy."

The pain exponentially came into him, like a million null rays. He could hardly process.

"Jazz, please."

He shook his head, coming closer. "No ticket!"

The burning was too uncomfortable, Prowl couldn't bear it. "STOP!"

"THE SIGN on the back of the car said 'Critters OF HOLLYWOOD,' YOU DUMB FUCK!"

The white continued to swirl, even as Prowl heard someone tell him he'd better come back online before someone heard his yelling, and suddenly Jazz disappeared with only a fuzzy drone that took Prowl a moment to realize was a Deceptitraan.

"Oh, but I think it is... We had a deal with you on the comics remember, for likeness rights; and as we're not only the artistic basis but also obviously the character basis for your intellectual property, Bluntman and Chronic, when said property was optioned by Miramax Films, you were legally obliged to secure our permission to transfer the concept to another medium. As you failed to do that, Banky, you are in breach of the original contract, ergo you find yourself in a very actionable position."

It all came into focus in an instant: Smokescreen shaking him, somebody pounding on the door, the blurry distrust of his environment. He looked up at his friend and grabbed him into a powerful hug.

Smokescreen asked if it were beginning.

If this were the beginning, Prowl dreaded the intermission. "Yes." He had considered the pain of separating from a part of his spark, but had repressed how agonizing it would be. It were as though his insides were being dissolved in a smelter.

Jazz was not dead. Jazz was not far away (he was the one knocking on the door asking what Prowl wanted, which meant the mech had been calling for him). The spark somehow knew that the two had separated and Jazz's half was reacting accordingly. The grief was almost unbearable.

"Please," Prowl gasped, unable to hear the plaintive cries of the Porsche as he continued his assault on the chamber's entrance. "Get him _out_ of here." It would be easier to tolerate the pain if he weren't being reminded that _he_ was the one who had caused it.

Smokescreen clicked on the intercom. "You have to go, Jazz."

"What's wrong with Prowl?" he demanded, ignoring the dismissal. "Prowlie-bot! Are you okay?"

The sound of Jazz's voice made it flare out of his chest and shoot down his limbs. "No!" he moaned, doubling over. "_Keep him away!_"

Smokescreen did not like what he saw. He paged Ratchet, who stomped in grumbling about a lack of rest. He took one look at Prowl and started pulling tools out of subspace.

"Both of you, _out!_" he yelled over his shoulder. Smokescreen was not aware that Jazz had crept in alongside him.

They stood outside, neither making optic contact. Only the soft hum of the lights above them made noise. Smokescreen thought that he should say something, but had no idea what would be appropriate. There was no preceding conversation for the unwanted former partner of the Autobot he was dating. As they stared at the wall in front of them, not speaking, it occurred to Smokescreen that Ratchet was bonded to someone he didn't particularly care for. How did he deal with it?

His database searched for former conversations. Being a psychologist, he'd had a recorder implemented in his processor to recall everything ever uttered to him. It was a blessing and a curse. Ratchet's sessions were mostly anger management, but one emerged with a different subject.

"_He's a pain in my tailpipe." Ratchet, in stereotypical fashion, lay on a large couch and talked his vocalizer off. Smokescreen took notes, at the medic's request. He liked to look at them and pretend he understood what was wrong._

"_How so?"_

"_Well, he thinks just because we melded minds we should also act like we're a gestalt, and when I started hanging out with Ironhide he threw a fit."_

"_Really?" Most of what Smokescreen uttered was some kind of conversational encouragement._

"_He said 'I thought you loved me!' blah!" Ratchet did a decent imitation of Wheeljack._

"_What did you say?"_

"_I told him I promised to share a lot with him, but that was not one of the things I had agreed to share. He stomped off to his room and made me feel guilty for the rest of the week."_

"_How did that make you feel?"_

"_Slagged off! I'm not his, fraggit! I'm my own mech! And this is stupid! Can we talk about something else?" Ratchet was clenching his fists, which meant it was time to do meditation exercises._

Ratchet opened Smokescreen's door, making the same face he had in the psychologist's database. He closed the door behind him before Jazz could slip in again.

"I put up a firewall for some of his circuitry to help with the pain," he explained. "But _you_ need to stay away from him."

Jazz angrily crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Not you. _You_." He pointed to the one mech not causing trouble.

Smokescreen gaped in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

Ratchet's glare never wavered. "The last thing he needs is the new guy scrambling his diodes while his spark sorts all this out. All you're going to do is get both of you hurt. Leave 'em alone!"

Although he was simmering with fury, Smokescreen kept his civility. He felt a light brush of Jazz's hand comforting him.

"You can stay in my room," he offered, smiling sweetly.

Day 7, Week 4, Month 12

Spike had been chased out of his house, Carly's apartment, and the commissary, but he'd be damned if anyone was going to keep him from practicing. Bumblebee let the human strum the guitar inside his chambers until Gears banged on the wall and threatened to test the instrument's durability on Spike's head if he didn't cease.

"Man! Some Autobots just don't like Green Day!" he mourned, fixing a broken string.

"Play it around Jazz," his friend suggested. "He's outside of Smokescreen's room."

After his first week of being an earth ambassador a scary threat had emerged in the form of giant Autobot feet. They were unaware of the smaller being below them and after a few broken bones and **way** too many close calls action was required. To give fair warning that he was around Spike had taken to talking loudly. That got boring. Soon he dug out the guitar he'd quit playing after high school and strummed chords, except that he only knew four and the noise quickly fell on deaf audios once it had become repetitive enough to fade into the background. While he recovered from the broken rib Skyfire gave him Spike took guitar lessons and proceeded to annoy the relays out of every single mech with three exceptions: the tolerant Optimus, faithful friend Bumblebee, and Jazz.

"Hey, Spike!" the Porsche called as soon as Spike was in sight. "I _hear_ you struck a _chord_ with your last audience!"

"Yeah." Spike had just played a bad one before turning the corner. The saboteur's puns had become as much of a background noise as the guitar's earlier work, making his response less than enthusiastic. "Do you mind if I practice?"

"I don't, but Prowl might." He gestured to the dark spot in the hallway where a shut door seemed to glower at them.

"I don't mind," the locked entrance replied. "Are you taking recommendations?"

Ludicrous scenarios and Jazz went together like black cat hair and white pants. Prowl's soft query made the whole thing even more unreal. No one offered explanation as to why Jazz was on the other side of the door, or why this was going down by Smokescreen's room. Obviously it was none of his business. Spike stammered in the affirmative to the question and played Prowl's favorite human song. 'Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.' It was bland, banal, metronomic, formulaic, and older than dirt. It was the perfect song for an unlighted door that stalwartly refused to open. Jazz tilted his head from left to right in time with the beat.

"Do Ironhide's favorite," the door suggested next. 'Ghost Riders in the Sky' it was. After that there was Hound's 'What a Wonderful World,' Mirage's 'Hotel California,' (done poorly) and the toughest one of all, but the one that merited a nod from him as he passed, was Perceptor's 'Here Comes the Sun.'

"You got any requests, Jazz?"

The Porsche smiled. "I'm enjoyin' what you're playin.'"

"I'd like to give you a shot, since Prowl's asking for most of them."

"Let him," Ratchet emerged from the scowling door with a face complementing the gloom of the hallway. "He says it's relaxing."

This was not typical Prowl but maybe the sound of awful guitar music drowning out whatever noise Jazz usually made in this hallway was beneficial.

Jazz stared at a medium-sized green cactus next to him that had begun to flower. The cheerful green plant made the corner where the black and white kept his vigil a happier place, yet Jazz didn't seem to be considering this as he mulled. Spike finished slaughtering 'Come As You Are' (He REALLY needed to practice his chord changing more often).

"Do you know Journey?" the Porsche asked quietly. He did not seem to show any inclination to Spike's other renditions, except for the eager nod that rattled his visor at the title Spike presented.

"I know parts of 'Faithfully,' if you want me to…okay. Ahem." He tuned the guitar as close as he could. "**Highway run, into the midnight sun. Wheels go round and round, in my mind."** For the other songs Jazz sang the words, giving Spike leeway to figure chords out; but since he was not sure how the chords or lyrics went, being on an oil tanker that would NEVER have allowed this song to be played on the radio, Spike was kind of lost. He plowed ahead anyway.** "Restless hearts, sleep alone to-night. Blah blah blah blah blah, don't know thi-is part."**

His voice was clear; as close to Steve Perry's as possible. "**They say that the road ain't no place to start a family."** Jazz sang this song as though it were the last tune he would ever perform in a beautiful voice. All of the Autobots could sing (excepting Sideswipe), but Jazz was the best for imitation. "**Right down the line it's been you and me. And lovin' a music man ain't always what it's s'posed to be.**" Jazz stared at the taciturn door, a small tear sliding down his visor.** "Oh girl, you stand by me. I'm forever yours-**"

The door roared open so fast Spike's left arm jerked back mid chord change and caused the guitar neck to hit him upside the head. Prowl stood above them, optics flashing and blaster whining.

"I think you should go, Spike," he spoke, as though mentioning the weather. "There's an issue I'd like to discuss with Jazz."

"You _do_ remember!" the Porsche called joyfully.

"You son of a toaster," growled the reply as it aimed.

Still dizzy, the human raced away from the sounds of battle and nearly collided with Trailbreaker's ankle, destroying the guitar.

"Whoops! Sorry Spike! I didn't see ya coming."

"You and me both," he muttered, thinking about the infuriated expression on Prowl's face.

Day 6, Week 1, Month 15

Prowl woke up from another painless recharge, thanks to Ratchet's firewall. He regretted coming online the minute he heard slurring voices and raucous laughter.

"Come back, Gears, we were only kiddin'! Aww, don't be a sparkling about it!"

"All three of you are off your axles! I oughta tell Prime!" Gears stomped off, grumbling about how it wasn't even noon yet.

"Stay here," whispered Smokescreen, who had AGAIN disobeyed Ratchet's orders and snuck in last night. "I'll take care of it. Hey, Jazz."

"Hey, Smokey!" The Porsche struggled to stand, taking a long time to accomplish this task.

"What are you guys doing?" He made it sound friendly, as though he were eager to jump in if he liked what he heard.

The black and white mech grinned, making a toast with his high-grade energon to the latest addition to his party. Skyfire and a slightly embarrassed Seaspray lifted their glasses. "We're drinkin' to love!" he mumbled joyfully. "May everybody else have the same fun we're havin'!"

"Amen," the two added, somewhat subdued now that they'd been caught.

"I think you might want to do that somewhere else," the Datsun suggested to the cohorts who were glad to have an excuse to leave. "Jazz, I'd like to speak to you, if you don't mind."

"Well, I kind of do. See, I'm kind of ticked to see ya, since you're not supposed to be here." The grin was gone, replaced with a hard, thin line bordering on a frown.

"That's true, but I think a more valid concern is the way you're drinking so much."

"Got bored." He defiantly shrugged, visor blazing as though he dared Smokescreen to say something else. "Easy to get bored when someone steals your toy."

"That's not fair," Smokescreen replied, almost losing his patience. "You have to accept that he's moving on."

"Hahaha!" He had a wheezing laugh when he was trying to be sarcastic. "NOBODY can move on from this. It's too big, which is why yooou," (he swayed forward, following the pointed finger) "are not supposed to be here! Hey, Prowlie-bot! What's takin' so long?" He made a move to enter the chamber but there was a maroon mech in his way. Jazz's shoulder shoved Smokescreen backwards. "He ain't yours, buddy."

Smokescreen resisted, attempting to remain upright. "You're torturing him on purpose and now you're ridiculously drunk! What makes you think he's going to go back to you?"

Jazz stopped his struggle, anger melting to sadness. "Like I told you, he's going through a phase?" It had none of the confidence it had before.

"No. He's not." Smokescreen felt Jazz push again and tried to regain his equilibrium and failed for the slightest moment. The Porsche had a retort for every situation.

"I'll let him tell me himself. Now move."

"No!" As he said that the black and white won more ground.

"Smokescreen, he'll get his way no matter what happens and if you burn his circuits he'll just have to resort to violence." Prowl was awake and directing his blaster at the colorful lump verbally jousting in the doorway. Jazz put his hands up in a mock-surrender pose and backed away, feet jostling Cloudstreaker. "He only understands one word."

"Decepticons!" cried Red Alert as he raced down the hall. "Hurry! Prime's called a meeting!"

Prowl took Smokescreen's arm affectionately as the saboteur tried to weave his way down the hall behind them. "To be continued," he stated simply.

Day 5, Week 2, Month 19

Megatron submitted his written demands to the United States government before the end of the day: abandon every Appalachian coal mine or be very sorry to see what would transpire. The Autobots rolled out at dawn.

Sunstreaker was not a morning mech. "Why can't Megatron take over the world later in the day?" he demanded, still hung-over from the bash Jazz hosted in the hall. There seemed no end in sight for the Porsche's vigil, which had lasted so long even the cynical Huffer had given up talking Jazz out of living in the hallway. The mech in question drove alongside of them, good mood never wavering. In a moment of intoxication Sunny had asked his black and white cohort why he was waiting for what looked to be the impossible.

"_He wants me to be here," he replied._

"_He tol' ya that?" Sunstreaker had trouble keeping his balance as Jazz removed the energon from his hand._

"_Said so himself." He polished off the beverage and cranked the music. "Watch. Smokey'll be pissed but he's not supposed to be there, and Prowl won't come near me, so Ironhide will come out here but when he sees we've got a batch of Karbombian he'll forget what he wanted to say."_

"Aaaaargh," Ironhide moaned as they pulled into a Tennessee mountain area Skyfire had scouted earlier. "Whay did Ah drink so much?"

"Because you're an idiot," Prowl explained, less affection in his tone than usual. It had been a sleepless night for him between the noise from the party and the fight with Smokescreen over Prowl's method of dealing with Jazz: Smokescreen believed that Jazz needed to know Prowl's feelings once and for all to be sent away; Prowl knew better than to assume Jazz would pack up his things and move if Prowl said anything like that. An argument ensued.

"Red Alert! What are your readouts?" Prime called, disengaging himself from his trailer while Roller beeped out.

"Prime, the Decepticons are on the other side of that mountain," he replied, "east of us." Skyfire radioed in, reporting nothing.

Prowl's processor flashed through possibilities. "Have we been detected?"

"Not yet, but the buzzards are circling." Laserbeak and Buzzsaw were close enough to spot them unless they dove for cover.

"If we go through the mines, we could be walking into a trap. If we roll over the mountain, we'll be detected, therefore..." Prowl grinned, still in automotive mode. "Brawn, get your drill ready. Windcharger, Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, Hound, Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Dinobots! Follow Brawn!" The hefty truck dug into the mountain with Cliffjumper gauging their depth and the others following. "Red Alert, Bluestreak, Sideswipe, Inferno, Tracks, Beachcomber, Perceptor, Mirage…follow me. Prime, if you take the others around the mountain in ten astro-minutes, we'll converge at the same time. If I'm walking into a trap-"

"You'll have the Autobots most capable of escape," Prime interrupted. "But I insist you take Roller with you."

"Affirmative." They drove into the dark cave while Prowl's internal radio barely registered Smokescreen's protests over the setup. Jazz always understood that being in battle wasn't the time to worry about someone, why didn't Smokescreen? They had been together at the last battle because that was defense, but today was different. Jazz never questioned Prowl's motives. BUT…Jazz always managed to find Prowl, no matter how far apart they were.

Twang!

"Concussion blasts! Get out of here!" Prowl transformed, blaster ready, but everyone was gone. "What the-"

"Drop it," Skywarp rumbled, materializing in front of the Datsun with his arm blaster pressing against Prowl's chevron.

The Autobot released the gun and scowled back at the Decepticon before him.

"Where are the others?"

"They _were_ right behind me." He knew better than to turn his head to look.

Skywarp laughed. "Not them, ground-pounder. We know you split up outside. You're the strategist, you should know."

Thundercracker placed his firearm behind Prowl's head. "Ya think if we shot at the same time they'd meet in the middle of his head and cancel each other out?" he growled. Both laughed the same stupid, dirty chortle. So that was why Jazz called them Beavis and Butthead.

"Move!" Skywarp commanded once they'd calmed down. "And don't try anything funny."

* * *

The Decepticons were not where Red Alert had originally positioned them, which was not much of a surprise. Decepticons had a tendency to wander, and with Red Alert somewhere in the mines and Windcharger underground they had no way to figure out where they'd gone.

"Optimus Prime!" Starscream called. "You forgot somebody!"

Skyfire, in mech mode, landed on top of the Autobot leader with a crash. He was a mess, as though the fight had been short but the beatings endless. He was scorched and marred and broken and the only thing he could do was curse the flying mech that had brought him onto this wretched planet. Prime tried to radio Ratchet without much success due to the mountain's ability to block radio waves. He blasted Starscream on the wing and told the battered Skyfire to hold on. The Decepticons were flying everywhere like a swarm of hornets, guns blazing.

"Prime!" Ratchet called, coming around the mountain when he came. "The Autobots are starting to come out of the mine!" Roller wheeled up the trailer ramp and informed them that an ambush had strewn about a few Autobots but with so many mine entrances there should be no one getting _too_ lost. (He hoped.) At that moment a part of the mountain burst and the rest of the troop emerged amidst enemy fire.

"Where's Prowl?" Smokescreen demanded amidst the feverish scattering of vehicles. No one knew where to go or what to do, and the people who could help Optimus herd were hard to get a hold of in this mountainous area.

"GANG WAY!" Bluestreak barreled out of the mine with the Coneheads at his wheels.

"GET INTO A CAVE AND OPEN FIRE!" Prime bellowed, leaping at Thrust as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker attached themselves to Dirge and Ramjet. The truck's weight dragged Thrust down, leaving the twins on their own.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HA!"

Sunstreaker shot his brother an annoyed glare before digging his thumbs into the jet that carried him. "NO MORE DUKES OF HAZZARD!"

"BITE ME! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Dirge was their favorite Jet Judo victim because he did non-stop barrel-rolls. Sideswipe spun around and around as he shrieked obscenities but never let go.

Sunstreaker had a different problem: Ramjet had long ago figured out that landing in front of Megatron was a sure-fire way to pry an Autobot off of his cockpit.

"No matter where I go, a little golden nugget finds me," Megatron cooed, cannon whining as it warmed up. "This one needs to be smelted!"

POW! Optimus Prime hadn't resisted an urge to be in the nick of time since 1984. He knocked Megatron's head forward and disrupted his shot, hitting Starscream by accident. Starscream didn't take it very well.

"I told you we were outnumbered, _leader_."

Megatron ignored him. "Where are Skywarp and Thundercracker?"

"Right behind ya!" They had Prowl between them. "Get offa Megatron, Prime!"

"You didn't count on us, did you?" Smokescreen retorted, rolling up and covering everything with a cloud. "Now Jazz!"

The Porsche was nowhere to be seen. Without any fire to keep them down the jets were able to take off with Prowl. Megatron threw Optimus down the mountain with a hailstorm of shots before joining them. Furious, Smokescreen hurried to Prime and caught up with the other black and white trying to help him up. He shoved him as hard as he could.

"_You said you would cover me!_ Now they've got PROWL!"

Jazz took a step back in confusion. He had been distracted by Sideswipe unceremoniously dumping Dirge on top of him, forgetting his promise to cover Smokescreen. "Prowl? How?"

"How do you think?"

"We need to –ugh- calm down and reassemble. Then we can find Prowl better." Optimus Prime stood up and tried to radio everyone, again getting no response.

* * *

Megatron had them right where he wanted them. The Autobots were stranded on/in and between the mountains with no decent working radio. Most were wounded. Their strategist was dangling between his two best Seekers, to be dropped at a moment's notice. The notice was given; Prowl fell with a clunk. Now, as Megatron motioned to Rumble and Frenzy, the Autobot and his compatriots would be buried underneath several tons of shale.

The tapes flew to the top of the mountain, turned their arms into piledrivers, and set to work on a rockslide. It was beautiful to see rocks tumbling down the mountain towards stumbling cars and mechs, landing on top of the slower ones and burying those hiding in the collapsing mines. Soon no one would be functional. Muh-hahahaha!

Rumble and Frenzy came up a few minutes later to report success and they all flew away without bothering to check up on their enemy. Even if Megatron bayoneted the survivors it wasn't worth the excess energy spent. Besides, he's just bought himself more time to invade a few power plants.

* * *

Prowl was in so much pain he could barely process anything but one thought at a time. He would radio for help. That's all he had to do, even if there was no response, he would radio for help. He refused to allow himself any other directions, for if he couldn't get a hold of anyone, he might have his first panic attack in ages. As he repeated his self-instructions to continue calling for assistance a shadow fell over his arm.

"Jazz!" the mech called in relief.

"You knew I was comin' man. No need to worry." The Porsche grinned as he rested his gun on his left shoulder. The outside light framed him so bright he looked deified. "I could find you with both optics turned off."

This was true. Prowl's friend never left him alone in battle for long periods of time without somehow knowing where he was. Even when they were on separate missions, somehow Jazz could locate him.

"I got a part of my catalytic converter crushed," the Datsun explained. "I can't get up." Jazz continued grinning, immobile from his place at the mouth of the cave, in a slightly sinister pose. Prowl felt uneasy, wondering if his fellow Autobot would take advantage of him in this state. "You are not going to emotionally blackmail me again, Jazz."

The Porsche laughed his scratchy chortle as he approached his bondmate. Prowl's optics searched for any sign of backup, which was strange considering that NO Autobot wandered into potential Decepticon territory alone, and come to think of it, why wasn't Jazz's radio squawking like a police brigade's? Something was wrong.

"You are not Jazz," the injured party managed to croak after a particularly nasty surge of pain broke through Ratchet's firewall. "You are an impostor."

"I am not!" he replied indignantly. "I'm as Jazz as you can get!" To demonstrate the black and white mech broke into a trademark dance. It was a move that had been so popular it was coined 'Meister' in Japan. "See? I may be the part that's stuck with you, but I'm still _him_!" He paused from his dance to anxiously glance outside again. "I wish the rest o' me would hurry up."

None of this made sense. Prowl could feel his logic sensors freezing up on him. "Jazz, please! Help me!"

"I'm tryin,' but for some reason I can't hear me. Do me a favor and sing that song we heard the day we bonded."

"What?" The day they bonded? Images of cacti and a white cloud and blue skies and bad music flooded his database, covering him like a wave of water over the shore.

"Sing it," he prompted, smiling as the dark took over the cave. "Sing it and I'll come and help you."

_The tune was awful, like nails on a chalkboard. Prowl was beginning to regret allowing Jazz to play his tape deck as they limped along. _

"_**I've been runnin' down this dusty road.** Dah dah. ** Wheel in the sky keeps on turning,' don't know where I'll be tomorrow**…take it, Prowl!"_

"_Take it where? The smelter would be an obvious choice." His struts hurt like nothing else. Neither was accustomed to walking long distances and their feet were beginning to feel the toll being taken. He wanted to complain about it but Jazz would call him 'Gears' for the next week if he did._

"_HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The laugh was too loud, being that all of the high-grade stored for any merited occasion had been guzzled. His behavior had become more reckless as time progressed, making him almost impossible to put up with at times. The thought died the minute the Porsche's lips touched his, though. How did Jazz know how to squelch his annoyed impulses like that?_

"_Silly," he giggled, picking up the cactus he had adopted a few hundred meters back. More topsoil crumbled from it, settling into the Porsche's cracks and crevices and making him even dirtier than before._

_Ah, yes, Jazz was over-energized. You could tell by the ridiculous dance he liked to do when he was hyper-active, something he'd created called the 'Meister.' Prowl had to laugh in spite of the irritations this mech inflicted upon him._

"_Hey," he called, mid caper, "do you like _this_ song?"_

_The tune longingly segued from piano solo to soulful lyric; Jazz gently placed the cactus on the ground and put a hand over his grill as he waltzed over to Prowl and placed his arms around him._

"…_**I'm forever yours…faithfully." **He had never kissed Prowl that softly before._

"_It's pretty," Prowl said, fearing what would come next. Jazz would break away from him and dance around some more, doing his usual 'pounce and flee' routine of lovemaking. He didn't want that._

_Prowl hated the idea of them being apart. There were no guarantees in this war; making every day potentially your last with the one you adored the most, even when he drove you up the wall. The song talked about the pain of separation with a voice that understood how difficult it was to do what you had to even when it hurt, and as Prowl's vocalizer trembled he told this crazy, inebriated Autobot that he was terrified of the day he would have to wake up without his best friend kneeing him in the stomach as he slept through their internal alarms._

"_Prowlie-bot," Jazz murmured in response. "A part of me will always be with you."_

"_No, it won't." Logically, the only way that would happen was if their sparks bonded, but he said a long time ago he didn't want to do that. Jazz was a free spirit. He would never be tied down. Prowl finished this explanation to see a visored face frown slightly for a second. Suddenly beaming, the mech plopped down on one knee and grabbed Prowl's hand._

"_Would it help if I swore I'd love you forever?"_

"_Funny," Prowl snarled, limping away. "As usual, I'm being serious and _you_ are cracking jokes." He would stomp if he could, but it hurt too much. "Don't forget your cactus."_

_He didn't follow. After a half a mile Prowl realized he'd have to go back and get him. This was a complete waste of time! He wanted to go home, not dance around the desert to lousy human songs while his feet plagued him!_

_Jazz had remained rooted to the spot Prowl left him. "I meant it," he declared soberly, as though he hadn't been guzzling potent high-grade since they left the Decepticon battle three hours ago._

"_You what?" It did not make any sense. Shocked, Prowl's legs gave in and he landed on the sandy spot next to Cloudstreaker._

"_I will never leave you, Prowl. I swear on my spark." He crawled over to the collapsed Datsun, carefully laying him down on his back without a trace of a smile. "I will stay with you and keep you happy and-Primus, whatever you want me to do." He was kissing him in that fantastic way he had earlier. Prowl knew where this conversation was leading but did not fear it; instead he decided to negotiate for better terms._

"_Quit drinking so much?"_

"_Yeah." He leaned his head on Prowl's shoulder. The Datsun placed his white hand on the black helmet and cautiously stroked it._

"_Stay at home with me at least once a week?" He got lonely without Jazz around to keep him company._

"_Two nights if I have to." They both chuckled._

"_What do you want me to do?"_

_Jazz kissed him again, smiling while his lips continued touching Prowl's. "Nothing. You're perfect."_

_That was a guilt trip. Prowl made a face. "All right, one night, and you can invite your friends."_

_Jazz laughed as he rested his head on Prowl's shoulder again, doing something interesting with Prowl's headlights. When he was finished the Datsun lifted his friend's mouth back up to his to be carefully nibbled on. Jazz purred and allowed his hands to roam for a moment before pausing, visor meeting optics. "So are we gonna do this?"_

_Prowl sighed uneasily, his exhalation turning into a chuckle with his mirthful companion. "I can't believe it." He supposed he could believe. Although he had no idea why they were together, after millions of years neither had bothered to ask. Why ask anyway? Jazz kept saying 'Don't stop believin'.' He played it about three songs back. "I should make it official. Jazz, will you-"_

The pain had increased exponentially. Entire circuitboards would begin shutting down soon, unless he got help. The Jazz at the door was losing his opacity as he begged Prowl to sing.

There could be Decepticons outside, or no Autobots left, or Primus knew what, but Prowl cleared his vocalizer and began. The cave had good acoustics. Thank Primus for small favors. It gave him a nice vibrato.

* * *

"Prime, there are thousands of caves out here!" Huffer cried. "How are we going to find Prowl in time?"

The Autobots had taken a long time to reassemble. Ratchet had half of the army to repair without Wheeljack's aid. The Lamborghini brothers were chasing down the Decepticons with Cliffjumper, Ironhide, and the Dinobots. They reported that the Datsun was not with them, thus concluding his wherabouts nearby. Jazz continued to crane his neck towards the caves Hound and Mirage were investigating, not saying a word but silently pleading with Optimus to allow him to look, too. Both returned to give an all clear: no bombs in the vicinity. They could not locate Prowl.

"He's in these mountains, Prime." Jazz always knew where his bondmate was, no matter what. "And he's hurt. Let me go get him."

"Negative. We will split up and search in groups of two. Take Smokescreen. Autobots, return to Ratchet's triage in forty billion Astro-minutes. If anyone is late you will be added to the missing list. Move out!"

Jazz felt as though he'd been released from prison, but only on parole. He had his chance to find Prowl and he had to do it with _Smokescreen_, of all mechs. He rolled up the mountain as well as he could, transforming only when the terrain got too rocky. He intently searched about, occasionally turning to infrared in the darker areas as the sun set. No sign of Optimus's second-in-command.

"Radios don't work," Smokescreen reminded him a few hours later, finally letting his anger dissolve enough to begin speaking to Jazz. "Should we start looking in caves, then, since the obvious conclusion would be that he's in there?"

"How will we keep from gettin' lost ourselves?" Jazz asked, audios picking up something strange: reverberations that clashed with the natural noise of the wildlife around them. Animal, mineral, vegetable, or Decepticon? "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Smokescreen twisted his head in the direction the Porsche pointed and shrugged, pulling his blaster out of subspace. "I'll cover you."

"Nice," Jazz snarled. "You can stay here if you're gonna be petty."

"PETTY! You left us wide open!"

"Not on purpose!"

"Yeah, right!"

"Shh!" It had grown louder as they approached a rockpile. "This landslide looks pretty recent. Do you think-" The incantation faded in and out, like a dying radio station, making it difficult to discern what it was. Smokescreen continued walking around it, nonplussed, as the other Autobot removed the rubble. Halfway through, Jazz gasped.

"**Through space and time, always another show. Wondering where I am, lost without you."**

"It's him!" Jazz redoubled his efforts as Smokescreen attempted top contact Prime. Success!

"Jazz thinks he found something," he reported. "I'm looking around in case it's a trap."

"Ratchet will be there soon."

"**And being apart ain't easy on this love affair,"** the Porsche crooned in response. **"Two strangers learn to fall in love again.**"

"**I get the joy of rediscovering you,"** it replied, as though it had heard him. **"Oh, girl, you stand by me. I'm forever yours-"** A white hand, marred by the burial it had been given, wiggled its fingers at sudden freedom. "Jazz?"

"PROWL!" Smokescreen intervened to yank the final boulder out and reached for his friend, shoving Jazz away.

"Hi, Jazz. I'm glad you came back." The Datsun's optic lenses were a wreck: one cracked in two, the other gone completely. His face was slightly flattened. His chevron was gone. Smokescreen, bewildered, allowed his rival to communicate as they finished digging their friend out.

"Where did I go?" Jazz asked softly.

"You told me to sing, then you left."

"I-ooooooh." His visor glimmered for a moment as his smile tightened. "You saw my spark embodiment."

"What?" Smokescreen had never heard of that.

"When two sparks come together, a part of each one abides inside of the other," Prowl recited, as though he had downloaded a datapad. "After periods of extreme separation, the contributor's spark often manifests itself in the host's processor as the physical form of the bondmate."

The psychologist was amazed. "How do you know that?" he asked as Ratchet pulled up.

"Let's get him inside!" their medic called, in a better mood now that Wheeljack was up and moving and all Autobots were accounted for. Jazz loaded his bondmate up into the tiny compartment, kissing him good-bye. He glanced back at Smokescreen.

"He looked it up the first time he left me," Jazz explained quietly, trying not to notice the wince in response to this.

Smokescreen had had no idea, and from the way that he acted, it looked as though Jazz expected it to happen again. They didn't speak. Smokescreen wobbled around the rock pile, trying to will the disappointment out of his body as he realized what Ratchet had been trying to tell him before.

"You see," Jazz explained apologetically. "Logic only sees one demension. Prowl's internal components can't grasp the concept of unconditional love, which sometimes has to be illogical, and he gets it from somebody like me, so every now and then the two don't go the same way and he has to choose between his programming and what doesn't make sense and he leaves." Jazz stared at the rockpile. "This is the first time he actually cheated on me, though." He motioned to Smokescreen. "Two months is the longest. That's when the sparks protest and bug us-_him _to get back together. After awhile, he can't take it and comes back. You kind of changed that, since you were a more-uh-reasonable replacement."

A response was unnecessary, if Smokescreen could formulate the right words to phrase his sorrow. Besides, Jazz was already rolling for home.

Day 2, Week 3, Month 19

Med bay let him go once the test results concluded everything was normal. Ratchet, brandishing the threat of tool-sorting duty, kept everyone away from Prowl to prevent the usual problem of 'too many visitors' from coming up. The black and white mech walked down the hallways alone, aware of how quiet the Ark was on a Saturday night. When he arrived at Smokescreen's he found the area outside of the door uncluttered. The only thing there was a grinning Jazz and a shiny Cloudstreaker. Both leaned against the wall with the haphazard casualness Prowl had fallen for in the first place but right now hurt him to look at.

"Where's all of your stuff?" It was the first time he'd lucidly addressed Jazz since their confrontation in the hall.

"After we found you, I figured our waitin' was over." Jazz smiled broader, gesturing to the flower-speckled cactus in the terra-cotta pot it inhabited. Cloudstreaker was so pretty, with her gorgeous green skin and lighter green spikes and bright yellow blossoms. Prowl's fingertips lightly grazed the prickles meriting his concentration instead of facing his archrival and sparkmate. "Smokey helped me move our things out."

"You figured wrong!" This upset him enough to want to hit that stupid Porsche upside the visor. "Jazz. I don't love you anymore." The incredulous stare emerged again, disconcerting the Datsun. He stared back anyway. "I have considered what I have to do to overcome this separation problem several times in my processor, and I know that it will be hard to overcome, but it's a pain I'm willing to bear."

One black hand cradled Prowl's chin to get his optics to meet a visor that wobbled slightly. "What about me, Prowl? What if _I_ can't?"

The strategist could have shot himself. He had NEVER considered that. Jazz felt it too! Prowl had been so wrapped up in himself he'd never considered that this breakup was two-dimensional. "Oh no. Jazz." He wrapped his fingers around his bondmate's shoulder, his friend, the other victim in this mess. "I had no idea."

"I know." There was a lot of bitterness in that statement. "I'm a better actor than you thought." The Porsche sank to the ground, leaning against the wall, taking a break from the confrontation. Cloudstreaker sat next to him, the only cheerful thing in this gloomy situation. He sighed. "You need to…go talk to Smokey."

Smokescreen looked up as Prowl walked in. "We need to talk," he announced, motioning for Prowl to sit down. The strategist knew what was coming. Déjà vu. He decided to beat Smokescreen to the punch, seizing his blue hands and reciting the speech he had practiced in med bay. For Jazz. Now it had to be slightly altered.

"I adore you. If this were an alternate universe, I know we would have been a lot more than what we were." Smokescreen nodded slowly. "But I'm bonded to Jazz. For better or worse. I may not feel about him the way I used to, but I have a duty-"

"Call it what you want, Prowl," Smokescreen interrupted, standing up and opening the door to a surprised Jazz. "But I want no part of it."

Startled, Prowl gaped at the psychologist. "I beg your pardon?"

He had a hard, unforgiving glare. "Stop lying to me, Prowl. This isn't duty. You planned for this to happen all along." Prowl shook his head slightly, disbelief overtaking him. Smokescreen obliged with an explanation. "You get bored, you mess up, he takes you back. This time you dragged me in with you." He put his hands on top of his head. "I was so _stupid!_ I kept thinking if I gave you more time, you'd tell him to go away, but you _liked_ having him around. And I let you do it 'cause I thought you liked _me_ but you felt sorry for _him_ and all I had to do was wait a little longer. No more. Quit calling this duty. It's not." Prowl still had a blank expression of shock, irritating the psychologist further. "Get out!"

'_Some day, love will find you_,' Prowl thought, hoping that Smokescreen would remember how they touched and went their separate ways,

SLAM!

Jazz remained on the floor. He tactfully refrained from agreeing with Smokescreen. (Or from telling Prowl that Gears had won the pool.) Prowl felt it anyway, wondering why logic interfered with his spark's function to the point that it made him the bad guy in all of this. He looked down at Porsche and Cactus resting against the wall.

Prowl joined them, looking around at all of the glaringly empty places the objects in the hallway left. You could throw the thing away but its memory lingered. His white hand found the black one and his doors clinked gently against the wall as he leaned back.

"Now what do we do?"

Jazz smiled sardonically. "I have no idea, man."

Silence settled in the hall. Smokescreen left a few minutes later, averting his gaze. They watched him leave without commentary. Neither felt like going anywhere, giving Prowl the goofy supposition that he'd _joined_ Jazz's vigil instead of _ending_ it. As though his previously unconsidered spark incarnation were being superseded by the real thing. It cued Prowl to ask something else.

"What did my spark embodiment say to you?"

Jazz smiled. "It kept beggin' me to keep an eye on you, that you would change your mind soon enough. It was harder some days than others, but you wouldn't stop buggin' me. At one point in time you-said something that proved you hear what I say."

"Really?"

The black hand squeezed with an illogical emotion for an undeserving recipient. "Yeah. _Don't stop believin'_. So I didn't."

Prowl rested his head on Jazz's shoulder and burst into tears. He didn't know why.


	10. Saturday Night Fever

My ex-boyfriend in college did this when he took it upon himself to sleep with every girl that lived in my hallway after our break-up.

* * *

Eject called it "Saturday Night Fever." Whatever it was, Blaster had come down with a bitchin' case of it, and even though technically it was 2 AM he was glad that Arcee was still up and ready to groove. She really was a sweetie. He didn't care what Tracks called her; he was jealous of anybody who could outdrive, outshoot, and out_cute_ him. Arcee did all three with an easy smile and a tiny waist. 

They had started dating the usual way people in large cliques did: he said something funny that made her laugh; she told him so and threw in an extra compliment that made him look twice at her, and before you knew it they claimed to be good friends. From there, a little Autobot speculation and one evening's usual hug good-bye ending a little sweeter made them a couple. He visited her when his shift was over and, being the gentlemech he was, never laid a hand on her unless she kissed him first.

Tonight she greeted him at the door by jumping into his arms and wrapping all four of her appendages around his body. Saturday Night Fever struck Arcee, too.

He was leaving her now, each kissing the other with those quick little smooches that said they were sorry one of them had to leave but actually meant that they were glad Blaster had decided not to spend the night. She feared her mentor's reaction. Blaster feared nothing. He'd just gotten LAID, man, and everybody in the Ark who hadn't heard her screaming her vocalizer out would have heard from those who _had_ before noon. Blaster felt no qualms cranking a song to strut down the hall to.

"**Well you can tell by the way I use my walk I'm a woman's man, no time to talk-"**

Gears had his door open first, yelling at Blaster to consider the time for Primus' sake. The tape player cranked the volume to '10' and did a minor tap dance in response. Trailbreaker opened his door next and laughed until there was nothing left to laugh at. "Springer's gonna SMELT you!" he called.

Blaster did a pivot and Moonwalked farther down the corridor, shoulders jiving to the beat. "He's gonna have to catch me first!"

Glory had few forms in the Autobot world. Peacekeeping engineers, artists, scientists, medics, and industrial workers did not have many intangible badges of social pride. Those anthropological enough would know that Autobot intimacy was hard to come by, harder still to get from a female, and hardest of all from Arcee, who was so picky no mech _alive_ had met her standards. Somehow Blaster had caught her in the right mood, ending a two-million year dry spell. He had reason to demand his peers' attention.

The Lamborghini brothers broke into applause. Jazz struck the Travolta pose and sang along, "**And it's all right, and it's okay, we'll live to see another day, and we can try, to understand, the New York Times has made the man**."

The tall red mech paused at the stairwell, embellished a fantastic spin, and faced the crowd of mechs. "**Ah, ha, ha, ha, STAYIN' ALIIIIIIIIIIIIhIIIIIIIIIIhehehIIIIII-IIIIVE!" **

At that moment Arcee poked her head out to thunderous approval.

"Bravo!"

"Next time, watch the higher pitches! I could feel my optics cracking at one point!"

"Good job, honey! Well done!"

"Encore!"

Arcee grimaced in embarrassment. "You are NOT getting a second chance," she announced, slamming the door loud enough to be heard over Barry Gibb.

Blaster took a bow to more cheering and strutted up the stairs. Wait 'til next Saturday.


	11. And They Call it 'Structie Love

When the going got tough, Megatron retreated.

Never mind that Devastator was _this close_ to turning the Dinobots into miniature schnauzers, or that Starscream had both Lamborghini boys questioning their Jet Judo efforts; if Optimus Prime made the Decepticon leader look like a fool, they retreated. Abandoned ship. Ran like turbo foxes being hunted down.

_We never fly away when Devastator is wounded_, the gestalt surly processed as it dissolved into six annoyed Constructicons and took off trailing Skywarp. They wanted to be as far away from the action as possible. They were correct in their precautions.

"LEADER, I _told_ you that it was a trap!"

"Starscream! You have exactly six astro-seconds to get behind me or I will scrap you for spare parts!"

"Like you did Optimus Prime? Oh, yes, my transistors are shaking!"

Every battle. Every time. Hook wanted to trash them both and have the Constructicons take over. At least there would be quieter escapes. Maybe he could make the two into a shiny silver and red throne.

He would also make sure the army got a decent amount of energon. Soundwave dispensed their pitiful rations while the Decepticon second-in-command watched resentfully.

"You have too much!" He ripped the cube out of Bonecrusher's hands and thrust it back into Soundwave's.

"What are you talking about, Starscream? Our cut is a ¾ cube apiece, not ½!"

"That was BEFORE you failed to destroy Omega Supreme AGAIN," he sneered imperiously, kicking Ravage aside as the cat scratched at his leg. "I heard Megatron say so himself!" The cat leapt in the air, growls indicating something.

"I bet Ravage has the deal recorded!" Scavanger announced. He was the smartest mech of them all. "Let 'em play it!"

"Negative! Ravage, get out of here!" Starscream kicked him again, harder this time. The jaguar hissed and took off, limping slightly. Hook was furious.

"You're a liar and a cheat, Starscream, and if you don't give us our fair cut we'll make it hard for you to kick _anything_. Get it?"

The surrounding Constructicons told the Air Commander he was serious. Other Decepticons curiously waited to see how the result came out. If Starscream gave in, he would lose his influence on them. If he didn't, they would be picking slivers of the Seeker out of the wall for weeks.

Starscream crossed his arms and glared. "I am obeying Megatron's orders."

"Since when?"

"Since always!"

Ravage returned with Megatron. "Starscream, I made no such order! If have to come down here and sort your petty squabbling again I'll throw you all in the smelter!"

"You did TOO make that order! You are trying to destroy my credibility!"

"You have no credibility! Now get out of here and initiate your exploration mission! We require more energon before the day is out." Fist brandished, Megatron watched Starscream march out and turned to the green and purple mechs trying not to smirk. "As for YOU, I expect Omega Supreme destroyed the next time we battle or you get ¼ a cube for all of you!"

"Em-em-empty threat," jeered Mixmaster as they settled into repair bay to set up shop as 'medics-for-hire.' "Who would ffffix every-everyone?" It didn't take long for the place to begin humming with the complaints of every Decepticon who needed some kind of work. The Coneheads lumbered in, short on change. Scrapper had no problem spotting them…if they didn't mind the kind of repair job energon-on-spec afforded. After a hasty consultation they paid for what they could and decided to try to do the rest alone.

"They'll be back in five astro-minutes with something stolen," Scrapper snorted. He was off today; it took them ten. By then things were busy enough that the Coneheads had to get in line.

Each Decepticon had a favorite Constructicon operator: Thundercracker trusted Mixmaster to repair him, Skywarp would wait impatiently astro-hours for Scavenger, the Coneheads would never _consider_ allowing Bonecrusher or Mixmaster to touch them, etc. Hook had the best with the designation as the official repairmech of the upper echelons of the hierarchy: Starscream, Soundwave, and Megatron himself.

Because all three had been relatively unscathed in battle Hook had little to do but fiddle with an intemperate Motormaster, who refused to believe for a minute that any repair he actually had to pay for was worth the effort.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Re-aligning your intake manifolds," Hook replied, annoyed. He hated this job, too. What he wouldn't give for a moment of peace and quiet just to get his bearings…

"You don't have to do that, they're fine."

"They're off by a 60 degree angle! You're losing energon!" he snapped.

"I SAID LEAVE IT!"

Hook shoved the giant Stunticon off of the table "Whatever. You're done."

Megatron came in when the bay was almost empty and commanded Hook to examine a short-term repair job Soundwave had done when the Constructicons were not around. The job was adequate; Hook explained it as such, being the type never to spark paranoia in the one Decepticon who had no objection to turning him into liquid metal.

"He did a decent enough job, except that the wires are tangled, which might be a slight irritation," Hook explained, adjusting the trifle as he spoke. He was a perfectionist and Megatron knew it, which was why his clientele were limited to those who expected a flawless repair job and had sufficient funds to back it up. Hook was on retainer. (Motormaster was a favor to Bonecrusher, who was sick of the truck's harassment.)

Megatron tossed a full cube in Hook's direction and bid the rest of the crew good-bye. They were required for a blueprint review in the morning and had to leave afterwards, which gave them a night to do whatever they wanted in the base, a rare occasion. They scattered to get away from each other.

It came on padded feet, like the morning mist in Scotland. Hook had been cleaning up repair bay so as to have one less thing to worry about tomorrow morning when something caught his motion sensors. A soft glow gave away its position, the sweet hot pink incandescence of a Cassette tape and his carefully horded treasure.

"What do you have the energon for, Ravage?" he asked. The cassette growled as gently as a cat could and placed it at the crane's feet. His sleek black head emphasized the large dent in his side.

"Starscream did that, didn't he?" Hook ran his hand along the flank, his fingers brushing along the metal to make out the dent's location and depth. The jaguar winced. "It'll cost you more than this," he announced, tapping the small energon cube. "Oh. Wait a minute…hmm. Karbombian. How long have you been storing this up?" The cube's worth escalated 300 after a second appraisal. "Okay, get on the table and I'll get my tools."

Dent repair was an easy task for Hook. Most impressed parts of Decepticon armor would pop back into place when heated, which is what Ravage's did in a matter of astro-seconds. Being the overreaching mech he was, Hook investigated the rest of Ravage's body to make sure that there were no other dimples by running his hands all over the cassette.

Ravage growled low in his vocalizer. It did not sound like a threatening noise, so Hook continued without worry. The rumble smoothed out, taking a lighter tenor. He nudged the point of his nose against Hook's fingers and rubbed them down the side of his mouth to his shoulder. Hook continued the movement down Ravage's back. The jaguar responded by arching his body to meet the caress.

"Do you like that, kitty?" he hadn't meant to sound cloying, but it just seemed to be the appropriate tone to take. Ravage squinted his optics in delight. "How would you like to have your ears scratched?"

"RRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrr," he replied, claws coming out and retracting to mark the table. Hook allowed the palm of his hand to mold to Ravage's back and glide down to his tail. Ravage raised his rear end in response. "RRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRR!"

"Nice boy," he cooed. There was something relaxing about that deep vibration that he made. It soothed him. Ravage rubbed his nose against Hook's helmet as the caresses continued.

But this was weird. Nonverbal mechs, especially Soundwave's tapes, were not considered full-fledged Decepticons. They had no rights to anything and no needs that Soundwave couldn't meet himself. Yet Ravage rested a paw lightly on Hook's shoulder and glared when the petting halted.

"I'm not that kind of mech," the Constructicon snapped, pushing the paw away. The jaguar nudged him again, rubbing his face against Hook's. If Ravage wasn't convinced by speech, perhaps action would be more persuasive. He scooped the cassette up and lugged him over to the door, his grunts covered by the loud purring.

"RRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr." It took over, disrupting his body's rhythm and forcing it to coincide with the more sedate cat. "RRRRRRrrrrrr." He could feel his whole body droop a little more, as though the weight of the day had finally caught up but it didn't matter because Ravage was making him feel like he were resting in a lubricant bath. The closer he held him, the deeper the vibration penetrated. Hook hadn't felt that relaxed in a _long_ time.

Still, the jaguar had to go. Ravage skidded across the hall and bumped into the wall, red optics furious as the door clanged shut behind him.

* * *

Nighttime is the best time to shut systems down and defragment your processor, activate self-repairing circuits, recharge, and as the human song goes, be with the one you love. The Constructicons usually drifted apart during these times for a healthy dose of Reality, AKA "Why we don't stay with Megatron's crew on a regular basis." Bonecrusher came back early and slammed himself down on the recharge plate and refused to talk to anybody. Longhaul and Scrapper followed, towing Mixmaster. "I ddddddidn't lose thththththat much, Hook," he drowsily explained.

"We owe Thundercracker a week's supply of oil," Longhaul snorted. "Not much at all."

Scavenger did not come home. Just as well; most of the Constructicons were offline in less than ten minutes, most grumbling that the sooner they could get out of here tomorrow the better.

Hook was not surprised that four paws alighted onto his chestplate so gently there was almost no sound. Ravage curled up on his body and throbbed, scarlet optics squinting with delight in his own cleverness. He had no reason to be smug: any Decepticon spy got what they wanted if they were stealthy enough. Besides, the door was unlocked.

"I never said you could come here." He'd already lost the battle. Ravage's metal thrummed with a thousand energy bolts when Hook touched it, making the Constructicon wish he could purr, too. His hand fit onto the head perfectly to feel the sensation best.

"RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrrr."

That noise reminded him of the sound all six of them made when they were hard at work, doing whatever they wanted without having to fight for energon or gamble their profits away or do gruntwork that inevitably failed once the Autobots got involved. Devastator had been created to give them power and glory. That wasn't happening nearly fast enough, and when they almost succeeded was around the time Optimus Prime was embarrassing Megatron enough to force him to retreat to save face. Nothing was going right in Hook's optics today, except for the moment this gentle engine drummed against him in joy. As he stroked the cat the harsh thoughts' sharp angles were filed down to mere impulses not worth processing…

"RRrrrrr," Ravage sighed, drifting offline in relief.

Hook smiled. No matter how bad things got it was nice to lay back and pet the kitty.


	12. Losing My Religion

The companion to The Macks Anthology's "Fly"

* * *

I knew he was going to be livid with me for dragging him off of our recharge plate, but I knew he'd be even angrier if I neglected to inform him of what was happening. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

"A pity," he clucked, once he was online enough to no longer grumble threats under his volcalizer's normal volume. This confused me; wasn't he upset that someone was attacking a monument to his favorite human city?

Tracks is an impossible puzzle. He's treating this as though it's Megatron trying to do something stupid, like issuing an inconvenient computer virus to Microsoft. Lately everything he says irritates the slag out of me.

"NO!" he cried as another plane whacked the side of the second tower with the force of a blue hand on a silver face. He ran away without a second impulse, not offering an explanation and looking a thousand miles ahead. The distance in your eyes, Tracks.

* * *

I'm not sure if it's my lack of time offline if my personality is that way, but I'm TRYING not to lose my temper, and I can count on my hand the number of times I've unleashed my rage onto him, but STILL…first he was cavalier about the whole issue, then he exploded into worry and wanted to rush off to New York and do Primus-knows-what without consulting Optimus or the United States Government or ME. He KNEW I would do anything for him, the lengths that I will go to…I can't figure it out. So instead I told him, in my perfunctory method of calming down my staff, not to go and that's an order. He did not take that well. He gushed his own lost control in front of the Aerialbots, putting me in a position to either be far too rough with him to make an example out of him, or send them away to speculate. I don't appreciate my authority being undercut. I can either be in the corner or the spotlight, I suppose. So be it.

* * *

Anger takes over, as it always does when I can't decide what to deal with first. What I meant to say was that he needed to wait until I told him the bad news I've tried hiding for a better moment, to make a more informed decision before trumpeting off to New York and exacerbating the situation. Instead, as usual, my temper flared-but for some reason I did't curb it.

"I can't believe you're being so selfish," I snarled, safely hidden behind my hand so that he wouldn't see me biting my lip in untimely frustration. Oh no, I've said too much.

* * *

Make no mistake, when I look at him it's as though the most wonderful gift Primus could have ever given me is looking back with a faintly condescending amusement glittering on his irresistibly kissable lips. Silly soldier. That was just a dream. You can lead an Autobot to victory but you can't come to the Matrix. Instead you get a miniscule glimpse of eternity resting in the optics of a bright red face. Aforementioned red face left me no choice but to give him leave, as long as the mechs who witnessed my dressing-down accompany him. Damage control, maybe; but-YET AGAIN-I've allowed a small blue car to rule my life from behind an impenetrable emotional stronghold. Fortress Magnus, he called it once in a moment of exasperation that had us dissolve into giggles.

Instead of me sending him off to a safer environment for better protection he is departing to care for someone else. The reaction of his leaving me will not process. It can't. I didn't say good-bye to him personally, just like that last time he abandoned me; I never could. Every whisper, every waking hour I'm choosing my confessions. I just tell him to watch out for bears and hope he got what I tried to say to him.

* * *

The first, last, and only time I told him how I felt was the time we played outside on the mountain and ended up in a muddy heap going at it like Megatron would come in at any second and break us up. When I admired his fantastically perfect form the only way I could, and he replied with his usual return compliment…I don't know. It's still befuddling. A part of my emotional stronghold cracked and a small chink allowed my affinity for him to come out, like smoke from a chimney. Somehow, **somehow**, **_somehow_**, _SOMEHOW_ he got what I was saying and reiterated the emotion.

Later Warpath thought Tracks had been mauled by an earth-creature called a bear, which was so ridiculous another corner of Fortress Magnus crumbled and I cracked up. Delighted, my smaller, younger, sweeter mech taunted me with ursine quips for the rest of the day, making it a pleasant little code for either of us to use. It let me see the hole in my fort in a different light.

* * *

Going offline is easy. It is with great perplexity and slight chagrin that I wake up alone…and quietly satisfied. Nights with him were exciting and rowdy, due to not only a desperation to make up for lost time but because his charisma pulls me to him like a million silver fish in a strong nylon net. His energy radiates, like the sun. Although I have become accustomed to it, being around him kept me in a constant state of anxiety. No, that's the wrong word. Excitement…thrill…_joie de vivre_…

"Ya horny bastard!"

Spike yells random phrases at Raul as they struggled to work at repairing the telecom in Sparkplug's Garage. It hasn't worked for as long as I've been on earth (six months under Prime's watchful glance in the Ark, six months hoarding my flame-kissed mech), but now that Optimus is in New York to supervise reconstruction of Ground Zero (what a stupid name for a wreck site. A quarter of Cybertron collapsed within itself and we never called it Ground -6, or Ground .25 or Fire in the Hole). He expects his equipment to work.

"What the hell?" Raul can be heard with the clear resonance of metal hitting metal in a large room. He has considerable difficulty tuning to us. "Did you just say I'm a whore?" They hate each other and make no attempt to change this constant battle.

"Fuck yeah, loser!" Mr. Witwicky replied, snickering. They called each other a few other names that are not worth repeating. I broke up the raillery and tried to contact Prime myself. As the picture continuously panned downward with flashes of stability he greeted me, allowed me to report, and as we concluded our trivial banalities the picture flickered and another body flashed for the briefest of moments, making some kind of lyrical noise.

"Tracks?" I called tentatively. That noise…I thought that I heard you laughing. I thought that I heard you sing. I think…I thought…I saw-

"You try!" I said to Spike after a few moments of frustration. "The whole blasted thing's broken again!"

"RAUL, YA DUMBASS! DO YOU COPY? WHAT'S THE FREQUENCY, KENNETH?"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP?" the human located where I want to be roared. "EVERY TIME YOU TALK WE GET FEEDBACK!"

And so it continued until Blaster's return from patrol, when he berated us for our incompetence and pushed a few buttons. Spike grunted a begrudging dismissal of 'techno-geeks' before disappearing, leaving me to ponder another ghost sighting of my spark's desire.

* * *

This ability to recharge without any processing interference is embarrassing. Nobody sees it, thanks to Fortress Magnus doing what it does best and keeping a brave front. Tracks hated (hates, Magnus, _hates_. Present tense) my inability to show emotion.

He would babble incessantly during his post-coital afterglow, or keep me awake with the actual act, but now that he's no longer a battery in my port I drift away almost immediately. When he talked, he often told meandering stories that had no point. His earthly allusions were lost to me (they still are; _present tense_. Consider this the slip that brought me to my knees, failed from preventing the pervasion of helplessness over the situation).

"Come pay attention to your Lolita," he purred one night as I staggered in from a stressful day and an even more tiring hike up the mountain to watch the sun set with him. He got to return to our chambers, I went back to work. We reunited six hours later.

"I thought you were a Corvette," I replied, collapsing in confusion. The unlit room showed nothing but two bluish green dots shimmering in the black velvet like violently inappropriate headlights on a country highway.

"Primus, Maggie!" he groaned, annoyed but snickering. He proceeded to tell me some strange, winding tale of a misprogrammed human male, some story that had no resolution and no happy ending. When I finally got him to stop recalling trivial details that only piled the tale into an imperceptible heap instead of a neat stack of plot bricks, he sulked as though I had kicked the pile for sadistic reasons.

"You don't bother to understand any part of earth culture," he complained. "When you become Prime you'll have to know how humans operate or you'll be lost, and you'd might not have me around."

"I won't be Prime, I'm just a soldier." We've had this discussion a million times. He has a secret ambition to glorify both of us by making me Autobot leader.

"You'd make a perfect Prime," he continued, as though not hearing me. "All you need is a little insouciance and-"

"And a Jackie Bouvier," I interrupt, tweaking one of his wings. Tracks had a figurative 'Earth Guru' pedestal he ascended--with a ladder attached to the back. I loved knocking him off. He'll climb up again, but he'll watch his back a little better.

"Nice," he commented. "I was going to suggest a good bear mauling, but a political pawn relatable to the masses? Not bad."

"The bear mauling comes standard." No longer able to resist his charm, I went to work enjoying my flying treasure with its jeweled optics and spark of gold. No fortress should be without one.

* * *

"Maggie? Oh! I'm sorry, uh-" It's too late; everybody heard him. Hot Rod and Arcee exchanged a look and Springer snickered while Kup shook his head and Blaster pretended Perceptor's datapad was fascinating. "Uh, _Ultra Magnus_, SIR, Tracks reporting from Tower Seven. Buzzsaw spotted, fired upon. Trajectory: back to Decepticon base for repairs."

I didn't let on my annoyance with his mistake. Perceptor once babbled some nonsense about humans showing embarrassment but **I** **don't**. Life is bigger, and you are not me. I accepted his report and covered up this embarrassment with the rest of the meeting. He never apologized for that despicable nickname. I hate it. If I didn't know any better I'd swear he says it in public on purpose.

* * *

I took to talking to him when he was dead to the world. Offline and snoring was the perfect way to allow pent-up frustrations escape to him without telling. His arm rests over the edge of the plate, fingers curled slightly.

"I hate the way you make sour faces any time I ambush you in the hallway," I complain in velvet-muted darkness. "If you don't like me doing it, just say so." Who am I kidding? I'd still do it.

"Snore," he replied to my impatient rhetoric. It made me smile; something only he can do, intentionally/accidentally. It makes another piece fall off of the wall.

"You're crazy, Tracks. But in a good way." Crash. "I don't suppose you'd ever say 'yes' to us bonding, then?" Why did I say that? I was being impractical again.

"Only on a Tuesday," he replied, optics dark. "That's the day he takes his forces to Quadrant C for refueling. If we go any other day, we'll be destroyed." He rotated onto his stomach with his usual grace of maneuvering jutted wings, one hand smacking my chestplate uselessly. "Perceptor's plan won't work without considering Shockwave's schedule."

The suddenness of his reply jolted me back to the reality of me being a coward about him and the more practical revelation that in war there are no good times to allow messy emotions to cloud your database. I backed away and let the wall repair itself.

"Why don't we send a bear?" he murmured before returning to snores. Dammit, that liquefied me into smelt and the urge attacked me as I attack him.

* * *

The particulars of our fight were not known, instead embellished to the point of concern from my fellow officers.

"Is it true he heard Prime's orders for him to return to the Ark on the 15th and decided to leave anyway?" Hot Rod demanded. "And that you let him because you guys broke up weeks ago? Or is it the story I heard where he cried until you let him go?"

"It was none of those things," Kup interceded for me. "You need to stop listening to Arcee. Tracks's time with us was up and Ultra Magnus thought he'd be better suited for helping New York."

That was the official report. Prime didn't take my insubordination with a shrug and a new subject, as Hot Rod did. He asked me what I was thinking, sending my security team to a completely different station, on the other side of the country, five days before our NEW security system was installed?

"I felt we could handle any breaches in such a short span as four days."

Prime crossed his arms, face not showing his indignation. "He asked to go and you allowed it."

He always saw through me, the toaster. I was supposed to give Tracks and the Aerialbots Prime's orders the minute they were issued but I dawdled for eleven days until my Corvette wanted to go and to tell the truth was inevitable. I let Silverbolt do it. Prime's sentence suggested all of this without utterance. "Not as such."

"When will you stop letting him rule your life?"

By now I was angry. I had Tracks as part of my auxiliary security team for six months, to the Tracks-hating Optimus's discomfort. Inevitably, I was ordered to send my 'distraction' back to the Ark and resume my role as Ultra Magnus, guardian of Autobot City, but this did not happen. Again, I had befouled plans by giving my best friend regency over his own fate.

"No one 'rules' my life, _sir_. The humans needed assistance and I offered volunteers. I apologize for not consulting you first. It will not happen again."

"Affirmative." He did not say it with the formal air of a conceding supervisor but the bite of a furious mech who does not like his authority being undermined by those closest to him. "A team of Autobots will join him in 24 earth-hours. When we arrive I will contact you. Prime out."

* * *

He's beautiful. A vulnerable red face is framed by pristine white. His gray hands and feet are never scratched. He has a yellow square on his chest with a glaring red Autobot symbol that laughs at me when he cracks a joke at my expense. When he talks about New York his optics go from a pale blue to aqua.

Later, when I watched him go from his takeoff point from Tower Seven with the Aerialbots close behind, that same beauty glints in the light. He flies quickly. _'Trying to keep an eye on you like a hurt lost and blinded fool'_ I thought ruefully, consoling myself that we're happiest when he does what he wants when he wants how he wants and that my attempts to cover up his missteps were not a waste of time.

* * *

It was a small, brown package, lying on the monitor with a smirking taped-up flap and slightly smudged ball-point pen (Raul's hand, Tracks's name) dictating its final destination. It seemed too authoritative for a tiny label to have that kind or ruling over where the box would go; pigeonholing me into a definite place with primitive human placement instead of more specific coordinates. Each line stated a piece of me, like a drumbeat in a complicated musical piece. Ultra Magnus. 1894 Autobot Base Drive, Tower 2, Room 526. Spotted Owl. Oregon. 94627. Phone number a 212 area code, which meant that he put his own so that I would not get a call telling me the package was missing. It also gives me the long-awaited information I couldn't get from trace-blocker Prime.

CALL HIM.

And then what? Our fight's not over. He'll give me a repulsed expression, or _worse_, I'll find out it was some horrible prank from somebody who really hates me, or _worst of all,_ he'll demand my forgiveness.

I should go there. Put Kup on temporary boss duty and race over to the city and scoop him up before anyone notices I'm gone. Except that Optimus is there. I can picture him now, his visored face hiding none of his caustic annoyance for my weakness. I can see the Corvette's white helmet nodding in encouragement, hoping to know the replies to the unanswerable.

Tell me, Tracks. Would you really carry the carrier, as you promised?

"You can bear me." He was riding on the top, his favorite spot. We'd just left the outdoor concert (Johnny Cash, one of the last before his death) and as we discussed some of the more profound lyrics Tracks had, not surprisingly, re-routed the conversation to himself. I wanted to know what to anticipate from him but didn't know how to ask it, thus retreating behind my Fortress Magnus and allowing our 'stale' conversations to loop around their usual (dis)course until Tracks got bored and revealed what he expected from me, relationship-wise.

"What will YOU do?"

"When shit gets rough, I carry YOU," he replied. I had no idea what that meant until the day we were bombarded on all sides by Gestalts and when the smoke cleared from the millionth dragged-out mired smoky battle my army brought my attention to the pressing issue of the day: Autobot morale was low. I had a minor mutiny on my hands until Tracks came forward and talked me into giving mechs time off, a foreign concept on Cybertron when every day was your last, but on Earth things were more relaxed.

He loved the leadership role. It accentuated his ego like black accents on a gold Lamborghini surface. He did not have the complex processing ability to see what needed to be done to keep the machinery going; relying more on the outside appearance to the inner workings. I understood that my war machine looked ugly, but it ran so well I forgot that the exoskeleton needs maintenance- apparently in the form of vacation time. We make a good team. Primus, I miss him.

* * *

Prime answered my call, calmly anticipating trouble and getting it in the form he least expected. Inferno fetched my prize, whose optics glittered like a thousand rays off of the lake we occasionally visited. His smirk barely surfaced before quaffed with a response to my statement 'I have received your package.'

"You're supposed to open it."

The stupid thing is too small to open neatly. Inside, a clump of strangely textured polyester with a brazen code stares at me. I heart NY?

He snickers slightly, warmth coming through the telecom. I've said it all. "It's a human gift. They call them teddy bears." He seems genuinely moved by his own generosity, instead of allowing me the pleasure. I don't get him at all.

"A bear in case you need an extra mauling occasionally."

With that look, smile, and statement my entire resolve crumbles. I'm staring at a mech that I will never see again-I'm sure of it-and when my giant rusting hulk decomposes on this Primus-forgotten planet I know that I will still be thinking of him. Tracks, my perfect friend, you are a million things to me in a million moments but right now you are a destroyer of fortress walls.

"I love you too," I reply.


	13. First Dates

_Baby baby baby_

_From the day I saw you_

_Really really want to catch your eye_

_Somethin' special 'bout you_

_I must really like you_

_Not a lot of guys are worth my time_

_Ooh baby baby **baby**_

_It's getting' kind crazy_

'_cause you have taken over my mind_

_And it feels like oooooh_

Alicia Keyes "You don't know my name"

* * *

"You owe me five energon cubes."

Skywarp stood in the entryway of Starscream's laboratory, optics glowing in the triumphant vermillion hue reserved for stoplights frustrating rush-hour travelers. He uncrossed his arms and swaggered over to the table as his Air Commander refastened the left gun to his arm.

"You asked him." Starscream's trinemates had been flirting for what seemed like an eternity, prompting the other Seekers to determine that Skywarp and Thundercracker had better start something or they'd all kill the two mid-battle. They were _disgusting_. Inside jokes, constant whispering, acting like twins instead of two separate beings-it had to end! There was hope that a catalyst would either force them begin a relationship (that would go under the radar immediately to hide from Megatron) or realize they wanted to be friends and stop dropping the innuendoes. Either way, their fellow Decepticons would win. The Coneheads elected Starscream as master manipulator. The Air Commander knew that the black Seeker could not resist any type of wager concerning his bravery, so last week they had been doing their usual game of Top That and Starscream bet Skywarp he couldn't ask his wingmate out. "What activity have you planned?"

The grin wavered, returned, faltered, and disappeared into a fog of confusion, to be abruptly replaced with confidence. (Never show a moment of uncertainty, Decepticon rule #3.) "I'll worry about that later." Starscream snorted, never looking up from the minutiae of his null ray while Skywarp continued to verbally stumble. "I did the hard part! The rest should be easy!"

"That's what you think," the scientist replied.

* * *

They were Yin and Yang. Penn and Teller. Jay and Silent Bob. Rosencratz and Gildenstern. Samneric. Casper and Pollax. Hall and Oates. Let them catch you lumping them together in any form or stereotype and they would beat you to a heap of scrap. Sunstreaker took Bluestreak's left, Sideswipe sat in front of him, blocking the splendid view of someone the wistful gray mech had been observing with an admiring optic for a good twenty minutes.

"Not again," the yellow one sighed, snatching the datapad out of the Datsun's hands. "What kind of assignment did Prowl give you this time?"

Sideswipe said nothing, scowling slightly. Occasionally, without realizing it, one of them tired of the role he occupied and assumed his brother's, leaving a void the other one promptly filled.

"This one's from Jazz. He told me he'd give me a three day pass if I did inventory for him _just this once_."

"He said that last time," Sideswipe grunted, leaning back in his chair and letting his head drop down from the chair's back until it was hanging upside down. "He just wants to hide in his room and dink around with that Playstation." Siders was wrong. Jazz sat two tables over, engaged in animated discourse with someone special (to Bluestreak).

"He almost beat Ironhide at Mortal Kombat last time," the gray mech protested quickly. "He wants more practice." He grabbed the datapad back. The chore was complete, but Blue wanted to make sure he hadn't missed anything. The commissary was the perfect place to do this, especially when a mech could time his arrival with a particular higher-up's break period. "Though beating Ironhide would be tough, since he's really good at that hand-optic coordination stuff, and Jazz thinks that if he practices enough he'll beat 'em, but 'Hide's pretty talented, and besides, nobody's beaten you guys yet, but Ironhide's close-"

"Ironhide Ironhide _Ironhide_! Why are you still crushing on him?" Sunstreaker demanded. "C'mon, Blue, this is getting boring. Ask him out already!"

"What! No!" Bluestreak shook his head, fervently. "NO! He's my commanding officer! I can't do that! He's got a girlfriend! He's…he's way out my league." If he concentrated on the inventory list maybe they'd let it go.

"He isn't when we fight." Sunny let his gaze wander to where Sideswipe's had rested long ago. "You're always bailing him out or making sure he's not running off to face the 'Cons alone. I'd say you've helped him out enough he wouldn't say 'no' to a little game of Windshield Bump."

"Shh!" Blue called, ducking behind the datapad like a shield. Sunstreaker had a loud voice and a filthy mouth. What if they heard? They were two tables away. A velvet purr, an intelligent tenor, and a sweet southern drawl floated past the datapad Bluestreak hid with, indicating nothing was afoul. "I'll ask him when I turn in my inventory list."

His attention to this mech had been fairly recent, but intense enough that the twins-who got whoever they wanted without much effort-assumed that Blue wanted to develop the feeling into something significant. But this was complicated. It would involve TALKING to him on a regular level, something that Bluestreak couldn't do when his vocalizer said the wrong things the moment Prime's assistant entered his field of vision (or his thoughts). Sometimes Autobots were put up on a pedestal to be admired from a safe distance, not to be dragged down into the mud. (To paraphrase Flaubert.)

Sideswipe lifted his head and sat up. "HEY! IRONHIDE! C'MERE!"

"Oh Primus." Someone had their yellow hand on his shoulder, pushing him down to keep him from fleeing the scene as a suspicious red mech cautiously approached the table. He had always treated the twins with caution after the Spaghetti Incident.

"Yeah?" He had a musical voice. Bluestreak loved hearing him talk, picturing the soft light of the stars over his home on Cybertron the nights he sat outside, talking to his creator about nothing in particular. Sunny was right. This was ridiculous.

Sideswipe plucked the datapad out of Bluestreak's hands and offered it to Ironhide, denying Bluestreak the excuse to personally present it later. "Blue has a question for you."

All three involuntarily turned to the sniper and smiled three different ways. Bluestreak wanted to run. Of all of the expressions (pleased smirk, encouraging beam, and polite reflex), one could not be countenanced. A prayer for a Decepticon attack went unanswered, as did the internal petition for lightning to strike the twins.

"You know how every week we inventory everything in the Ark? I think we don't need to do that if some things are never going to be used. Heh." All he got were blank stares. Sunstreaker scowled in frustration, making the Datsun squirm. Bluestreak was dying here. "Maybe we should have a sign-out sheet or something for some of the stuff, or just put it one big room like a library-"

Sideswipe huffed air out of his intake impatiently. "That's stupid! Just ask him!"

He was going to keel over, he was sure of it. His internal mechanisms were racing and his energon pump squealed as though he'd been racing forever.

Ironhide had been nice to think about. It crowded other images out of his mind a little better to dwell on the energetic mech who loved to shoot and fight and laughed gently at Blue's jokes. So what if he was three times Bluestreak's age? He was great. Blue wanted to sit on a cliff and watch the sunrise with him, not-as Sunny put it-bump windshields. This kind of dreamy distance made the fully-functioning reality before him wrench his solenoids into a panicked state. All the Datsun could do was stare at the table and tremble.

Sunstreaker must have a trace of a spark inside of him somewhere, but it didn't come out today. The twins switched roles again. "He thinks you've got a tight skidplate for a mech your age and wants to know how he can get his hands on something like it."

Sideswipe spurted the energon he had begun to drink all over the table with his guffaw. Bluestreak felt the slight burn tingle his helmet as he winced, still not looking up. The Lamborghini shook, coughing as hard as he was laughing.

Ironhide's perspective was not as amused. "You two are not worth mah time. Bluestreak, Ah thought you knew better." He was leaving; Bluestreak could feel the bright aura departing, and he realized he had to do something or he would never be able to talk to him again without this incident coming into their processors.

"Wait!" he called, hand outstretched. Ironhide turned back. Primus, he was amazing. His optics were cashmere blue, the light from them blurring delicately across his pewter face. Bluestreak had no idea what else to say.

Sideswipe was as sparkless as his twin. "You got plastic manifolds, buddy," he snorted derisively, shaking his head in annoyance. "What Blue here wants to do is ask you out on a date. Tonight. Meet for a drink, go shooting, maybe go for a drive." Sunny didn't have time to insert his own nasty _mal mot_. "Park on Glomp Hill and see how flexible a geezer like you really is."

It stretched out for an eternity, Ironhide's thoughtful pause. Bluestreak's forehead rested on the table as he asked his processor why one of the few times in his life that he didn't feel numb had to be NOW. How long they stayed in their strange tableau was unknown, but the young mech imagined it from a third person viewpoint: Blue with his head on the table, Sunny and Sideswipe either smirking or glowering, and Ironhide's own incredulously disgusted stare as he rubbed his helmet and figured out the nicest way to refuse. The seconds ticked on.

"How could Ah say no to that?" he finally chuckled, shaking his head. "Sure. Mah shift's over at nahne." He walked over to the slouching pile of incredulous shock. "Just don't bring the twins," he suggested, patting his shoulder fraternally before leaving.

Jazz had been playing with Prowl's inner knee while they awaited Ironhide's return. Prowl could keep his facial features immobile, even as small blue wisps of excited energy escaped from his body. Jazz grinned, triumphant. He abandoned his entertainment when the still-chuckling third reinstated himself into their conversation.

"What was that about?" he asked. Bluestreak was being high-fived and shoulder slapped by the Lamborghini brothers as the young mech continued to look as though someone had told him he won the lottery.

"You just lost yer inventory volunteer," the older red mech replied, amused.

* * *

Skywarp hated surveillance duty. It was boring, tedious, insipid, and no Autobot functioning properly would storm their fortress, but after the day that stupid human girl attacked them Soundwave assigned guard duty to one of them while everybody else raided the planet for supplies.

Thundercracker came back with enough energon for two. They leaned against the wall in the Main Room and sipped it while performing their usual game of making rude comments about their fellow combatants.

"Motormaster sucks tailpipe," Skywarp sneered, loud enough for the Stunticon to hear him.

"Skywarp sniffs vapors," he snarled back, giving an indefinable gesture.

"Nah, he's right, you _do_ suck tailpipe," interjected Wildrider, tossing an empty cube at his gestaltmate.

"Shove it, ground-pounder," Thundercracker retaliated. "We don't need your help."

At this point in time the small groups they tended to drift into shifted and clustered together to witness the face-off. Motormaster called for a truce with Wildrider long enough to scrap the irritating Seekers. Thundercracker prepared to step into the faceoff when Soundwave entered the room to herald Megatron's arrival. They madly scrambled to fall in line before caught fighting again. Megatron did not waver his stride.

"My fellow Decepticons," their leader began in a grandiose voice. "The day off I promised the select few of you is in effect starting now!"

Stunticons, Constructicons, and Combaticons scowled as the Seekers, Soundwave, and his tapes bolted for the door en masse.

"Should any of you return belated you will suffer!" Megatron called. They ignored him.

Skywarp and Thundercracker had no idea what to do for these few hours, but it didn't matter. Starscream disappeared with the triple-changers. The Coneheads headed for the shore. Soundwave and company flew for the Moon. As for the other two Seekers…they had a hundred things to do for fun, starting with a long-deserved aimless flight around the far-too-flat planet.

* * *

It was surreal. Blue stood still with his arms aloft in the middle of the twin's room. Sideswipe carefully applied polish. Sunstreaker sat on his plate and read date etiquette from some girl's magazine Carly had lent them in a squeaky voice that would have irritated Huffer.

"Item #2: Don't wear anything too revealing. Your clothes should reflect your awesome personality, not your awesome goodies. Leave something for the next date. 'It's nice to have a girl wearing something that looks nice but doesn't make me think she's charging by the hour.' Reese, 16. Item #3: Don't order anything that might show up in your teeth or ruin your breath. Avoid poppy seeds, spinach, most Italian dishes, and tacos. 'My first date with a guy, he had _garlic_ in his pasta and I couldn't kiss him good-night without gagging. Ew!' Riley, 13. If you don't have any breath mints and no time to go to the rest room, pretend to re-apply your lip gloss in the car and check for any food there." He put the datapad down and cracked up.

"Are you going to help me or piss me off?" Sideswipe scowled at a miniscule paint scrape on Bluestreak's hood.

"Hey, it wasn't my idea to ask 'em _for_ Blue. You should've stayed out of it."

Bluestreak could feel impotent anxiety overtake him. What if something went wrong? What if he messed up and said something stupid? What if he fell on his face? What if the twins crashed and made more disgusting comments? What if Sideswipe's attentions weren't enough? "Sunny, I'm sorry I said I would kill you in your sleep," Blue wheedled, trying to get the red mech away from the all-consuming paint scrape. "Can you help? Please?"

"Okay, here's some good advice: Made sure you have a travel-sized deodorant stick in your purse in case you sweat too much."

The Datsun sighed. "I take back my take-back." He gained some distance from Sideswipe, worry and fear coursing alongside the energon in his fuel lines. "No offense guys, but I think you've done enough harm." He was going to be with Ironhide for an undisclosed amount of time. Alone. With IRONHIDE. With **_IRONHIDE._**

"What attracted you to him in the first place?" Sunny asked, optics glued to page 13: Katie Holmes Makeup Secrets.

Bluestreak sighed. "Every time we were fighting 'Cons, I was with him or chasing them with him or just next to him, shooting. He thought I was funny. He's got a nice smile. I mean, it's got the corners turned up at just the right angle. Perceptor's smile's okay, and Prowl looks good in a good light and you guys are pretty hot and Tracks gets whistled at by humans but Ironhide is just…" the flattering engine sputtered and died. "…nice."

Sunny flipped another page. "You know, this stupid thing has one good piece of advice. _DON'T TELL HIM THAT SLAG OR HE'LL LAUGH HIS HELMET OFF._" He shook with his own amused contempt.

Sideswipe whapped his brother so hard his head bounced off the wall. "Will you HELP!"

Sunstreaker punched his brother back with force enough to bounce off of the _other_ wall before rising majestically and carefully inspecting the red mech's polish job. "The grillwork sucks."

"Bite me. You should've helped. Too late now, it's a quarter to. Let's go." They flanked him like bodyguards, saying nothing as they marched (in what seemed like slow motion) down the hall.

Sunstreaker took this as an opportunity to warn the Datsun what he should and should not say and do. Don't talk too much. Smile. Ask him questions. Walk him to his door at the end of the evening. Don't expect a kiss. Smile. Hold the door open for him. Compliment his shooting style. Keep a decent distance from his body but make sure that _your_ body language remains inviting. Smile. ("You said that." "He looks like he's going to Prowl's office for a beating! I want him to REMEMBER it!")

Bluestreak felt his solenoids rattle with every step. He'd never been out on ANY type of date, let alone with somebody so important to him. He would freeze up, he was sure of it. They paused at the commissary door.

"This is as far as we can take you. Checklist: Extra ammo for your blaster?"

"Check." They demanded he present proof and he did.

"Keycard to get into our room when the date is over to tell us what happened?"

He held it up. His hands were shaking. "Check."

"Database erased of the stupid advice Sunny gave you?"

"Slag you!" Sunstreaker snarled, pushing his brother out of their pupil's way.

"Check," Bluestreak replied shakily. He could see the bright lights of the next room and could not stop thinking about how his legs weren't working. The twins exchanged glances.

"Wait a minute! Why did _Sunstreaker_ give me personality advice and _Sideswipe_ work on my appearance? Shouldn't that be the other way around?" He was hysterical and getting worse by the second.

"I hadn't thought of that." Sunny commented, scratching his head. "I guess we're projecting our own date anxieties on you or something."

"Oh Primus." He turned around to leave, only to be herded back to his original spot and patted on the wings by both.

"I forgot some things." Sunstreaker placed his hands on the Datsun's shoulders and looked into his optics. "You are the most interesting mech in the universe. You look good. You're funny. You're _likeable_. And the hard part is over. We've already said the embarrassing stuff to him, so whatever you say tonight won't embarrass you. It can't. We beat you to it. So NOW…put one foot in front of the other, watch everybody around you, don't drink too much, and for PRIMUS sake, SHUT UP and SMILE!"

"Get away from him!" Sideswipe smacked his brother as hard as he could and guided the trembling mech into the room. "Just be yourself!" he called.

"Great." Bluestreak took one step. Then another. The bar area of the commissary was getting closer.

"He'll do fine," Sunny proclaimed, heading for the Main Control Room to spy on them with Jazz.

* * *

Mach 3 and accelerating! Thundercracker was gaining on him, which was not good. Skywarp decided to let him win to gain some points of favor. The blue Seeker pulled ahead and shrieked with delight.

"You're losing!" he called triumphantly. "Suck vapor, loser!"

Skywarp took it as a challenge and jumped ahead (with a little help from his warping power).

"I win!" he cried, transforming as they touched down in front of the power station. "What's my prize?"

"Electricity," Thundercracker replied, storming through the wall to make his own entrance. "Outta my way, humans!"

People reacted by scattering in confusion and fear, screaming and yelling. Thundercracker ignored them. He pulled on the wires of the generators and drank the raw juice from the dam. Not bad; processed energon cubes were preferable, easier on the system, too. He glanced over to see Skywarp in his favorite element: kicking a human like a hacky sack as he counted the bones he was breaking.

"There goes a rib!" he bayed joyfully. "Hey, T, watch this!" He maneuvered his jouncing captive into a small set-up that led into a kick where one foot replaced the other once, twice, thrice-

"WHAM-O!" he made a huge motion with his leg and sent the human sailing into the wall. Splat. "You try it!"

If there was one thing Thundercracker did not like to do, it was waste time. "Get what you came for! The Autobots will be here at any minute!"

"Ya got that right!" hollered Cliffjumper as he leapt out of Skyfire with Brawn. "Let's see how well ya do kicking somebody who kicks BACK!"

"Why do I have to work with Scrappy-Doo?" Brawn muttered under his vocalizer.

Thundercracker let out a sonic boom that shook the ceiling and brought it crashing down on the mini-bots' heads, knocking off Skyfire's equilibrium enough to force him to run into a wire tower. "Later, ya cheap toys!" the Decepticon jeered, transforming to catch up with his black and purple compatriot. They flew away at a comfortable pace with Skyfire trailing.

"Next stop, Starscream!" Skywarp announced. "Should I radio him and tell him we're bringing a present?"

"Why spoil the surprise?" Thundercracker had a good idea where their Air Commander was hiding. The triple-changers liked to drag him into the Gobi desert and feed him tidbits of their next takeover plan. They were never factual or accurate, but Starscream didn't care. He did it for the companionship-or so the Seekers speculated.

"When was the last time Screamer got any?" Skywarp supposed. "Or ever?"

"I'd go with never. He's got the appeal of a Guinea Pigatron."

"He _sounds_ like one." They had a good laugh over that. "If I had to go with a good voice I'd take yours any day."

"Heh." That was as close as Thundercracker got to saying 'thank you.'

Skyfire sent a warning shot across their noses.

"He's not giving us a break!" Skywarp was annoyed. How would he get to flirt with T if they were dog-fighting the whole time? "Go on ahead," he commanded, warping to the spot over Skyfire's cockpit and transforming.

"Three's a crowd, geek!" he cried, opening fire.

* * *

All three sat around a large dune guzzling energon as Astrotrain talked. His hypothesis was intricate and dangerous, one that had yet to be proven into theory but a startling thought nonetheless. Starscream had opened his mouth to voice his objections when a screeching noise superseded him.

"What are _they_ doing here?" Blitzwing demanded, head peeking up from the cover they took behind another dune. Starscream ducked down, clenching his jaw. He'd seen another plane with them; a large white one with red trim.

"Hey Starscream! Happy Birthday!" CRASH!

Astrotrain was up and inspecting the damaged goods first. Thundercracker and Skywarp transformed and landed on their feet with triumphant grins. They slapped a high five to each other before turning to face their Air Commander.

Starscream desperately hid his pained expression as he looked at the quivering white hulk as it desperately attempted to transform. He wondered if it mattered that there were other Decepticons watching him, or had his disdainful face become such a standard appearance no one bothered to look when emotion threatened to overtake him? Astrotrain broke the silence by asking how Skywarp had located them.

"You guys are always here. Megatron has Buzzsaw watch you. So what's the plan this time?"

Blitzwing kicked one of Skyfire's turbo boosters, turned back and crossed his arms defiantly. "What plan?"

"C'mon! You always have a plan!" Skywarp insisted. They were drifting together into a clump, like mercury. No one really felt like socializing, but the immediate flying group tactics that had been drilled into their processors were automatic. All three continued to deny any plans. Thundercracker glanced around for spies and saw no one. Soundwave's tapes may be on vacation but that didn't mean they weren't in the mood for a little blackmail material. "Besides, I came for my five energon cubes."

Starscream tore his optics away from the mech who had given up leaving his alternate mode and now lay quietly offline. "How is the date going?"

"Lessee…we did mischief and mayhem. Now it's time for trouble and terror!" He laughed at his joke, which was good because nobody else did.

The sneer came out too soon. No one noticed. "What about death and debauchery?"

"Did it. Now where are my cubes?"

Starscream surrendered half of his plunder and dispensed the remaining supply to the triple-changers. "Tell him your idea, Astrotrain."

"Like they'd get it." He'd rather stuff his tanks than entertain his cohorts, the lazy mech. This was why no one ever succeeded in ousting their mutual enemy. One was too lazy, one was too stupid, one was too unlucky.

"We need _simpler_ minds than _ours_ to _test_ it." Everything Starscream said was supercilious, no matter whether the innocence was intended or not. Both jets were relatively offended.

"Go jump a Lambo. We got better things to do. C'mon, 'Warp."

"Aw, come back! Starscream's a moron." They ignored him. "Seriously, we need to fly this by you." Blitzwing hated being around both Megatron's pet and his second in command, especially when Astrotrain went on one of his tangents. New mechs might make it more of a party and less like three losers with nothing better to do with their time off.

They landed for a second time, scattering sand and sparse grasses about their feet. "Go ahead."

* * *

He waited with a tightening feeling in his circuits, internally giving instructions to keep himself calm. 'Take a sip. Think about Jazz's stupid joke. "What's black and white and red all over? A zebra in strawberry jello!" Try not to worry that five minutes had passed and nobody came through that door. Jump three feet when someone touches you on the shoulder and spill your drink.'

"Hey," Ironhide greeted easily. Bluestreak smiled and realized the mess he'd made.

"Oh, blast!" he cried as his fingers rippled to make the puddle even more widespread. Ironhide cooled it off with his arm attachment and got something from the temporary bartender (a grumbling Gears) to wipe it up.

"Happened to me last week," the red mech soothed as Gears plunked two beverages in front of them.

Bluestreak tried to smile and had no idea if his mouth worked. Shut up, smile. That's all he had to do.

Except…

The frozen stare continued as Ironhide tested his drink, sat down next to the Autobot, and sighed contentedly, commenting on how good it felt to take a load off. Bluestreak said nothing.

"Are you all right?" Ironhide had expected a talkative date, not this immobilized statue. Maybe he should have taken Prowl's offer and brought him and Jazz along. He had turned them down, stating he didn't want to make the poor kid nervous. He'd been wrong.

The silent gawking continued. Bluestreak hadn't moved an iota since that thin, weak smile had slipped onto his face.

"Blue?"

Nothing.

This would be a long night.

* * *

"Truck exhaust!" stated Skywarp indignantly.

"It's the truth!" Astrotrain protested. "Why else would Megatron keep JUST the gestalts behind unless he needed them to help him make another team?"

"Because he let us help him make Menasor, that's why!" Astrotrain was smoking Autobot tailpipe! Since when did Megatron secretly make Decepticons out of the junk lying around the underwater base? NEVER! Starscream shrugged at this, declaring that this was what _he'd_ said, but the gray triple-changer was adamant. Megatron wanted the other giant teams to build him another gestalt. All they had to do was find out where and when and use this discovery to their advantage.

Thundercracker had remained silent throughout Astrotrain's character assassination. His arms were crossed, his face brooding. He did not yell; instead he recalled how Soundwave had been NOT granted time off alongside his tapes until after a long conference with Megatron, following a quick escape to the Moon. How much did the Seekers want to bet that their mutual enemy had never made the trip and was currently supervising any work that might be done underwater?

"He's right!" Blitzwing cried. "The tapes haven't been around us at all lately, and they spy on us for fun!" It made perfect sense. Spurious hypotheses aside, when someone pointed out a behavior inconsistency, it was worthy of consideration.

"So why don't we go find them?" Starscream demanded sarcastically. "I'm sure they've left a traceable location."

"You go ahead," Skywarp replied, pocketing his remaining energon cubes. "We got stuff to do."

"Come back here!" Starscream yelled. He couldn't play with his new toy and monitor the triple-changers at the same time; he needed their help. Thundercracker dismissed him with a gesture anyone who'd gone to the Cybertron Academy would recognize and took off to continue his date.

* * *

"So what are we gonna do next?" Thundercracker asked, once they'd put a few countries behind them.

"You know that prince in the desert the Aerialbots are buddies with? I think he needs to see what a real jet can do!"

"I like your idea." Another thought interrupted the pleasant image of a thirteen-year-old kid trying to save his sovereignty from destruction. "Do ya think Astrotrain's right about Megatron?"

Skywarp piffled the idea. "Whatever Megatron does in his spare time ain't my problem. Except on the second Thursday of the month." Their leader was a jealous mech and liked his servants to participate in some extra-curricular activities every now and then. Thudercracker admitted his day was the first of the month.

"So when's Screamer's day?"

"He doesn't have one! Starscream would shoot him in the back halfway through it!"

Skywarp burst out laughing. "Can you imagine the kinds of noises he'd make?"

"UGH!" Thundercracker was glad to change the subject to something more engaging. "There's the runt's palace now. We got company!"

* * *

Bluestreak never got tired of looking at him. He had a nice square glass panel up front to reflect the light at a cheerful angle. His red was more of a flame red than Sideswipe's cherry red, giving him a warmer tone. Those lines…

"BLUESTREAK! Are you all right?"

He had no idea he was staring. Blast! "Oh, sorry, sorry!" He turned back to the bar and almost spilled his drink again. "I'm sorry." Make a good excuse. "I'm kind of nervous. I've never been on a date before."

The red soldier patted his hand on Blue's back. "Really? Well, then, Ah'm honored!"

Bluestreak struggled to keep a smile on his face and start a different subject other than his gross incompetence. "You know, I really like your accent."

Ironhide smiled back, settling on his hand as the elbow joint rested on the bar itself. "Ah like yers, too."

It was out before the Datsun realized it. "But I talk normal! I mean, uh, I talk like someone who _thinks_ he's normal, but aren't we all a little nuts and bolts? I mean, uh, oh, I guess-we all have accents, but I always thought mine sounded kind of dull, but yours is decent." No, that didn't sound right either. "Your accent makes you sound not as stuffy-I mean-less like a know-it-all. No, um-"

"Do ya wanna get out of here?" Ironhide interrupted. Blue was about ten astro-seconds away from pounding his head on the bar in frustration.

He didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

Walking presented a new problem. He wanted to give open body language, like Sunstreaker said, but was not sure how far away to keep his distance while being close enough to be perceived as friendly, so his doors kept hitting Ironhide. Bluestreak didn't know whether or not to apologize for it or pretend it had never happened. As he struggled with the distance issue he ran into a wall and Grimlock, in that order. Grimlock told him to watch where he was going when he was drunk. Ironhide pretended the scratch on his arm was fascinating during this exchange.

At long last, the shooting range beckoned. Too bad Bluestreak chose that moment to trip on his own feet.

* * *

That goofy kid's jets were a _joke_. Thundercracker could've defeated them blinded, shot, low on energon, and offline. They had no fighting skills at all and their nuclear weapons couldn't do much after TC's sonic boom disintegrated them before they could be launched. Once the Seekers tore up the royal compound and made it a giant conflagration, there wasn't much left to do.

"How'd ya like that?" Skywarp asked, basking in the glow as the sun began to set behind them.

Thundercracker kicked a scorched tank over. A few humans scurried out. "It was kind of a letdown after the power plant."

"Oh." Skywarp had agonized over what to do with their spare time, and his best ideas were getting a lukewarm to tepid reaction, so now what? "Was there somethin' you wanted to do?"

"I don't know." They stared at each other expectantly. "Ya wanna go find some Autobots to blow up?"

"Sure." They took to the air again without much to say. Skywarp racked his processor for something to say but only came up with a stupid joke. "Hey, what's black and white and red all over?"

Thundercracker didn't care, and said nothing supportive.

"A penguin on Mars."

"Your diodes are scrambled, 'Warp. How would an Antarctic bird get on another planet? Wait, how would he be red all over? Wouldn't just his white parts be pink?"

"There's no such thing as a pink penguin." Granted, there was a pink panther on television occasionally…they'd seen an episode a long time ago when bored…but most penguins were not very colorful.

"How about a smashed ground-pounder?" Thundercracker cackled, barreling down to attack a Jeep crashing its way through the dunes.

* * *

He hadn't fallen when he tripped; merely stumbling enough to make a lot of noise. An interesting amalgam of red, blue, teal, white, black, silver, and the smallest glint of yellow stopped what they were doing in the shooting gallery and began to pull apart, sparks of blue energy zapping around them and slowly dying. Prime broke away faster, stammered something about finding that dust in Perceptor's optic, and how it should be flushed out, and why didn't he take him to Ratchet right now?

"Thank you, Prime," the scientist replied smoothly. "I believe that henceforth I shall be able to see the target with a clearer perspective." He walked away with Optimus in his wake. Prime paused to give Ironhide an unreadable look.

Bluestreak picked himself up from the bent-over position he'd frozen into and watched them leave. "What was THAT?"

"Nothin'." Ironhide pulled his blaster from subspace and assessed its charge. "This thing's only half full! Ah shoulda recharged it this mornin'!"

The silver mech was not about to let something as shocking as what he'd just seen slip into obscurity. "But they were…how does Prime _do_ that? Wow. I didn't know he had it in him. And PERCEPTOR? Sunstreaker says he's a geek! Wait'll I tell them-"

The light blue optics, so gentle before, blazed as they stood in front of their date's confused azure glass and glowered. "This is an order from yer commandin' officer, Bluestreak. Ya saw _nothin_!" He clenched his fist.

"Oh," Blue replied, thoroughly crestfallen. "Right. Sorry."

Ironhide turned away and found a slot to start practicing. "Teletraan, ole' buddy: gimme Level Four!"

Bluestreak stood there for a moment longer, feeling the nervousness drain out of him and the affection he'd had for this red vanette bruise up like a tightly clenched apple. So even in a casual setting he was nothing better than an underling to Ironhide. He didn't have to _snarl_ at him, for Primus's sake! To be honest, he kind of hurt Bluestreak's feelings. What was he doing here if Ironhide didn't see him as an equal, a friend, a potential…more-than-friend? Bluestreak's solenoids were already twisting in agony over his previous mistakes, errors, and assumptions; and now he just got _yelled_ at. Thanks a lot, Ironhide!

The mech in question stopped the meticulous exercise to notice that Bluestreak was staring again. This was going to be a _very _long night. "Are ya gonna do this or not?"

A heaviness seemed to overtake him, clogging his vocalizer to prevent any response. Instead he nodded miserably and pulled his blaster out, not really wanting to be here or do this any more.

The silence, interspersed with the sound of their blasters, echoed throughout the gallery.

* * *

Jazz didn't have the date on any of the inter-Ark cameras. He was too busy watching the Decepticons wreak havoc across the planet like a biker gang let loose on a small town. They were in pairs or threesomes, tearing up power plants or oil rigs or tormenting government officials. Prime came out of nowhere and demanded two teams of Autobots: those who would put Compound-W on the warts and those who would kill the virus causing it.

"What is Megatron doing during all of this?" he asked Perceptor, who was safely hiding in his lab. (Jazz wondered why he bothered. Nobody knew about them-yet-but why hide it? If he could he'd tell anyone who'd listen, but orders were orders.)

"Sky Spy and Cosmos detect no extraneous deviations on Megatron's part," the microscope replied, "however; the location of each particular Decepticon is unknown due to massive interference with our equipment."

"He must be tired," Jazz snickered, knowing who had made Perceptor that way. "'Cause I actually understood him."

"Me too," chimed Sideswipe. He and his brother had quietly stood next to the Porsche as Prime tried not to stare at Perceptor while tiny wisps of energy shot out of him from time to time. Perceptor appeared unruffled by Prime's battle of wills, Jazz was amused, and the mechs who had no self control and did not notice those who exerted it…didn't notice.

"Geek," muttered Sunstreaker. Prime sent them out to stop the Coneheads and asked where Ironhide was. As if he didn't know.

"He's on a date, Prime," Jazz replied, Sky Spy showing two Seekers dive bombing a human in his Jeep. "Do you want me to call him in?"

"Negative. I'll investigate the Decepticon lair with the Aerialbots myself." He called for everyone to roll out, instructing Jazz to keep Prowl nearby when he came in for information.

"No problem," Jazz replied, a little too enthusiastic.

* * *

Skyfire swooped in out of nowhere.

"YOU! I thought Starscream turned you into a pile of scrap!" Skywarp, furious, warped to get behind the resilient Autobot and teach him a lesson. He was ruining the evening!

"Starscream decided to follow the triple-changers. Too bad! I was looking forward to catching up on old times!" His voice dripped with more sarcasm than a gentle scientist should have. The scorch marks he left on Skywarp's body added extra paradoxical emphasis. "So how's the date? Has he kissed you yet?"

"You FAKED your injuries!" Thundercracker cried, dismayed (and more than a little embarrassed.) "You fraggin' geek! Get outta here!"

"Sorry. I didn't know I had to be honest!" He gunned his engines and sped up, missing Thundercracker completely when Skywarp appeared before him and punched him in the cockpit as hard as he could. They kept going foreward, but like a shark when his nose is impacted, Skyfire lost all sense of balance and began plummeting towards the Indian jungle below them.

"OW!" The black and purple Seeker had a fist lodged inside of the white Autobot and it wasn't going to be removed without either lubricant or a lot of pain. "Thundercracker!"

"I'm coming, give me a minute!" He had to aim first. Carefully flying until parallel with the two, Thundercracker aligned his guns across the mashed front of the jet and pulled the trigger. He took off more Autobot nosecone than probably necessary, but Skywarp didn't care. His hand was free and his enemy was falling! The blue jet swooped across to catch his buddy. "Hold on tight!"

"YEEEEEE-HAAAAAA!" He hadn't meant to say it, but now Skywarp knew why those obnoxious twins shrieked as they rode the Seekers. Although flying was nothing new to a Decepticon, neither Seeker was used to riding someone else for outdoor transportation. This was a total blast! "You gotta try this!"

"Okay, sure." Thundercracker transformed as Skywarp did and they changed places without breaking coolant. "WHOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOO!" Skywarp pointed straight up as though shooting for the moon and gunned his engines while Thundercracker gripped him for dear life. Skywarp shivered a little. The touch felt…nice. He hoped his friend enjoyed it too.

"HEY! SKYWARP! LOOK OVER THERE!" He forgot to use his internal radio in the excitement of being able to yell. "ISN'T THAT HOOK?"

It _was_. What was he doing in the jungle with a tiger in a cage? There was only one thing to do: free the tiger to annoy the slag out of Hook-_and_ Megatron, Thundercracker reminded him, if Astrotrain were correct. Maybe they should ask Hook some questions and radio Starscream. Nah.

"Let's free the tiger an' shoot his wheels out." That would do nicely. They'd better do it quickly, in case another Constructicon were hiding nearby.

* * *

The silence was too much. Ironhide said nothing to him except to ask to borrow some of his ammunition. Bluestreak let his arm drop when he mentally got too tired to shoot. After humiliation and being shocked and awed and nearly forgetting to compliment Ironhide's technique in his abilities and compensating by giving an unconvincing delivery and not really wanting to do this in the first place the stress was too much and all he wanted was this date to be over, and fast. His compatriot must not have agreed, for he asked if they were still going to go out for a drive.

"Sure," he sighed.

"What?" Ironhide put his blaster away and looked somewhat confused. It made him more handsome than ever. "Is there somethin' wrong?"

"No. Sorry." He was out of energy in his gun anyway. "Where do you want to go, to the west by the canyon?"

His date must have been relieved that Glomp Hill was not mentioned. "SURE! Let's go over there."

* * *

"HEY! Where'd he go?" Hook emerged from his hiding place and clenched his fists in fury. The blasted animal escaped before he could return fire on his assailants and return to getting any decent technical readings! He heard jet engines. Aerialbots, no doubt. He had better radio Soundwave. "I need more time. My subject escaped."

"Status report," Megatron demanded in Soundwave's stead.

"I captured a tiger, as commanded, but while I was retrieving the equipment from subspace someone started shooting at me. When I chased them off I discovered that the animal had run away." Megatron scowled, listened to someone else talk, and grunted.

"Apparently catching an eagle, rhinoceros, and lion were not as difficult. Expect aid in a few hundred astro-minutes, once we take care of these meddling Autobots. Megatron out."

Whoever it was did not return for a second attack. Hook had no further problems.

* * *

Flying over the Pacific Ocean took awhile longer than expected, especially when Thundercracker objected to going home "so early." Skywarp took that as a good sign.

"Hey, 'Warp, I got an idea."

It was a crazy game of trust they used to play in their early Academy days: they began by flying toward each other until they got close enough to rattle the other's body, then nearly collide. Before near-impact, they turned up away from the ground, continuing at a slighter angle towards each other. Both transformed at the last minute possible.

Thundercracker had a new twist. They did not pass each other, resisting the urge to shoot, as it had been when their instructor ran the exercise. He grabbed Skywarp and told him to turn off his equilibrium. The black Decepticon grabbed Thundercracker's shoulders and let the feeling of dizziness overtake him as they fell.

Skywarp glanced at the grinning mech in front of him. He was _challenging_ him, waiting for him to chickenbot out. No fraggin' way. They were getting closer to the water below them, unseen in the dark, but Skywarp wasn't going to be afraid. He wasn't; uneasy that this might be a practical joke that would flatten him if he weren't on alert-maybe-but he was not afraid. He could take care of himself.

(Besides, Thundercracker wouldn't do that to him.)

The air shrieked around them. The glass in his cockpit rattled with the rest of his body. They twisted and turned together as they dove to the earth, not separating. Thundercracker never looked hotter. It had to be the altitude or something, but as they plummeted Skywarp's fingers curled tighter around his date's shoulders and his smile pulled back into a full-fledged grin as the force of their fall made his whole body tingle. The tingle grew more intense, causing him to crack up. He rested his head on Thundercracker's shoulder and laughed. Thundercracker smiled, amused.

"Are you ready?" he asked through their radios. Skywarp was. "When I say, turn your equilibrium back on and transform." He had to already have it on to know where they were; Skywarp had no idea which way was up. "GO!"

"YEAH!" He was parallel to the ground and wrestling with a dizzy sense of unbalance (or was it Thundercracker?) when terra firma emerged from the black water and the human's pathetic civilizations splattered out like a bad energon spill under him. "We've gotta do that again."

Thundercracker laughed, closer than Skywarp had anticipated. "When we go back over water."

He wanted to do it now, but Thundercracker didn't. He wouldn't tell him who taught him that, which was too bad. It was a boring story, he claimed.

"Do ya see what I see?" Two very familiar figures in infrared sped along the bottom of a dry wash, their stupid headlights giving away their location.

"Let's go!" Thundercracker called, barrel-rolling down. "The big one's mine!"

* * *

Somehow the stars that glowed softly during normal nights were muted from the bottom of the gulch. They were too far removed from them. Dust kicked up around them while they made the tiniest clouds of small talk. It brushed past the somewhat slower Ironhide, who bore the brunt of the burden by being the one asking questions that the other mech replied in short sentences, preoccupied. As time plodded on, the buzz in Bluestreak's processor urged him to find out _why_ someone in a relationship would agree to spend time with a mech who tripped over his own feet. He tried to formulate the question that had been haunting him into a more proper context, but as usual he just blurted it out without processing.

"So what happened with Chromia?"

WHY DID HE JUST SAY THAT!

"I'm sorry! Augh! What I meant to ask was-um-"

"We weren't really a couple." Ironhide was puzzled as to why this was an issue. He would not have accepted Blue's invitation if he were somebody else's mech. "When Ah asked her if she wanted to be, she said no." The sting had not left him, making whatever goodwill he had for Bluestreak dissipate. "It's old history, kid."

"Sorry." He hadn't been called 'kid' until now.

"Ya know, ya can stop sayin' yer sorry. I know this ain't easy." He sounded short, which made Bluestreak even more nervous.

"Right. Sorry." Oops. He couldn't do ANYTHING right tonight! Was there anything in Sunstreaker's magazine that could bail him out?

"I think ya need to think before ya shoot yer mouth off, buddy," Ironhide gently reprimanded.

Bluestreak couldn't reply, due to the need to dodge an incoming firestorm.

* * *

"Yeah, that's right! Roll away! Roll away! Ah-hahahahahahaha!" Skywarp always got a little crazy whenever they attacked Autobots, to Thundercracker's discomfort. "You can't hide, loser!" The two Autobots were arguing.

"I gave the last of my blaster power to YOU!"

"Get under that rock then! Ah'll cover ya!"

"But I'm-"

"GO!"

"NO! I'm NOT getting under anything in this dark!"

"You'll be rusting in pieces anyway!" Skywarp howled in delight, hitting the big one as Thundercracker pinned them down with a BOOM to rattle the next planet.

"Augh! Jayzz! Come in!" He leapt over to conceal the younger mech from the Decepticons with his tougher exostructure. If Bluestreak weren't under so much stress he might have been awed at being this close to his crush. All he could think about was that two Decepticons were bearing down on them without Megatron to call it off.

The shots concentrated into one continuous pelting; Ironhide's body shook with each impact but he grimly refused to give anyone the satisfaction of a facial reaction. Bluestreak snatched the blaster from his cover's charred hand and mentally calculated where the black and purple Decepticon more than likely would emerge from his warp, which is what he must be doing if the barest outline (thanks to the full moon) Bluestreak could make out was missing. The Autobot was off by a few feet.

"OH NO!" both Autobots cried as the well-placed shot grazed Skywarp and nailed a persistence Sky_fire_ right in the middle of his body.

"Where did HE come from?" Blue moaned as an exasperated Ironhide grumbled on top of him, 'what NEXT?'

"I'm having a bad day," sighed the white jet as he tailspun down and nearly landed on the hyperactive Lamborghini brothers, back from their defeat at the Decepticon headquarters.

"The Calvary's here!" called Sideswipe flippantly. "C'mon bro, save a horse, ride a Seeker!" He was able to read Thundercracker's feint well enough to get a good grip on him, but Sunstreaker was not able to accomplish this move until a few tries later.

"Watch the finish!" warned the yellow mech.

"Rot in the pit!" returned the black jet. "Hey, TC, let's do what we did earlier. The original version."

Sunstreaker didn't like the nasty laugh he heard under him. It was time for action. He radioed his brother. "Move number 35!"

Sideswipe was still having fun. Drastic battle steps were unnecessary. "I hate that one!"

"How about 22?"

"NO!"

"16?"

This was unacceptable. "Bumblebee's favorite," he suggested.

Sunny sighed. "Okay. On the count of three: One-" They never moved on three. Attack number 69 was executed perfectly as either jet realized the death grip on the top of their bodies eased off and someone was blasting holes into their afterburners.

"YOU SCRAPLINGS!" Skywarp screamed, indignant. He was yelling at nothing.

Both twins were gently floating to the ground, watching their former targets debate whether to stop and repair themselves or move in for the kill. If move number 69 was done correctly, they would opt for the former. A puff of smoke took them away and a sonic boom interfered with the Autobots' parachute descent, but other than that there were no other problems.

"Blue'll thank us for saving his date," Sideswipe declared proudly.

Sunstreaker grunted. "Move 35 is better."

* * *

Ironhide was not damaged enough for Ratchet to worry too much. Most of his wounds were exodermal. The CMO and Wheeljack gave him a new coating of enamel and sent him off, admonishing him to get some rest. Then they turned to Skyfire.

He longed to climb onto his plate and slip into the blank darkness that was being offline. Forget the night, the pain, the horribly gauche evening's social misinteractions, forget BLUESTREAK.

"So you're okay!"

The scowl was out before he could stop it. "What are YOU doin' here?"

Bluestreak's forced smile wavered considerably. "Sunny told me I should walk you home when the date's over."

Ironhide's jaw dropped, closed, and he shrugged, trying to cover up the smile and failing. That was sweet. Poor guy! All he probably wanted to do was run to his room and hide until the world ended, but instead he put on a brave face and finished his date. It changed some perspectives, somehow.

Perhaps…perhaps Ironhide had not really considered…he hadn't…no. Blue didn't really do anything for him, like Carly said once about Spike. On the other hand, anybody who went through what the younger mech went through tonight and kept smiling deserved better. Maybe…just this once…

They stopped at the door and Bluestreak, who had been dying a thousand deaths in the last twenty-four hours and now wanted to be transferred to Ultra Magnus's division the second they found it, held out his hand for a handshake. Ironhide stared at it for moment before clearing his vocalizer.

"Bluestreak, this has been the worst date Ah've been on in _vorns_."

"I know. I'm sorry." He withdrew his hand. "And I _know_, I've been saying that all night but I mean it. I'm sorry."

It was pathetic, really. The poor mech. "Ah think that it's not fair to have yer first date bein' so awful, so Ah'll tell you what Ah'm gonna do: tomorrow Jazz and Prowl were gonna go with me to guard a NASCAR race the President's going to an' Ah can bring a few volunteers. Ah think you and the twins just volunteered." Blue's face lit up. "We'll pretend tonight didn't happen. How's that sound?"

The sniper could not feel a more welcome surge of relief. He was getting a second chance. This would be an easier setting with more people and no more worrying about how to act because he'd be around friends and working. It sounded great, and Bluestreak told him so.

"Ah'll se ya tomorrow," Ironhide called as Bluestreak hurried to go tell his friends the results of his night of disaster.

"Bravo!" The large red warrior turned up the hallway to see a grinning Jazz applauding as Prowl hovered over him. "Great job, Ironhide. You handled that kid pretty well."

Ironhide leaned against the doorway for support. "Easy for you to say. Tomorrow we have to work with the twins!" He invited them in. Prowl stood by the door as Jazz flopped onto the only chair in the room.

"Was it really that bad?" Prowl asked.

"Worse. Ah don't think anything went right." He told the story from the lousy invitation to the departure from med bay.

"Do you see this going anywhere?" Always Logical Prowl was considering step four when step one had barely begun.

"Ah don't know. Ah was ready to write him off as lost until Ah saw him waiting for me to get away from Ratchet so he could walk me home. It was something Chromia'd do." His vocalizer stalled for a moment. She was in the past, something that had lingering twinges of remorse when he thought about it. "He kinda grows on ya."

Jazz patted his friend on the shoulder and stood up to leave. Prowl followed close behind. "I guess we'll see."

* * *

"So…did you have a good time?" Skywarp seemed jumpy for somebody who had just been laughing his wings off for twelve hours straight. They were staggering to Thundercracker's chamber door, slightly over-energized after the Decepticon victory celebration over the Autobots. Megatron, to Starscream's fury, innocently denied any gestalt conspiracy going on behind the Seeker's back, and there was nothing to substantiate any rumors the triple-changers had started. Starscream opted out of the party to sulk in his lab.

"Yeah." He _had_. It hadn't really seemed like a date, even when Starscream and Skyfire called it that.

"One more thing," Skywarp added, leaning in before Thundercracker could open the door. Cool lips met cooler lips for a brief and soft kiss.

He turned to leave, not wanting to spoil the moment with a reaction; unfortunately the contemptuous snicker followed him down the hall. The black Seeker returned to confront his date with a frown.

"What?"

Thundercracker leered, optics glittering a cherry red. "That was WEAK!"

"Weak?" Skywarp tilted his head at an incredulous angle. "_Weak?_"

His taunting did not change tone, even when challenged. "Were ya kissing yer creator? I thought you were a warrior, not a floor sweeper."

"FLOOR SWEEPER?" Oh, NOW he was asking for it. "I oughtta pound your face in!"

"If you hit the same way you kiss, I'm not scared." He had been waiting for this. Bribing the Coneheads to heckle Starscream to dare Skywarp just to bring it all to a head in this glorious moment; when Thundercracker could goad the other jet into doing something his almighty pride would never have allowed him to initiate.

He simmered, the lightening brewing in the dark cloud his posture made as the gross injustice brewed. Skywarp wouldn't last much longer. Thundercracker could barely contain his glee: he was getting laid tonight-at long last-in five, four…

"I'm gonna make your wings shake," he threatened, grabbing the blue Decepticon's arms and pushing him into the room with all of his might.

"Then leave the light on. I want to see what you're doing." The grin burst forth for only a nanosecond before it was engulfed in a more rigorous activity, making Thundercracker hope that every date would end as well as this one.


	14. Blitzwing's Descent

I wanted to call this "Blitzwing's Inferno" (At Betaracer's suggestion) but then I realized some idiot who'd never read Dante would demand to know where Inferno was in this story.

* * *

"Autobots. This is an uneasy victory we have won. We now know that the Decepticons are not our only foes." The new Prime's face looked old. As he gave his address to Autobots everywhere, Blitzwing continued to stand in the shadows of Level 14, the exact spot in which an escape pod had lain dormant – until a few hours ago.

"_You will suffer unimaginably,"_ his leader had hissed menacingly. Megatron making a threat like that would have held weight, but Galvatron? The triple-changer wasn't sure. No, wait, strike that. If he were gambling mech – and he could be, easily – his money would be on any Decepticon looking for favor from their new leader. He'd be dismantled in less than a decacyle. Prime continued his speech, which sounded like something a drunken comic book writer had contrived, instead of the carefully crafted hokeyness his predecessor spouted.

"That another, more dangerous race of beings also plots our destruction." He sighed heavily, as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. Didn't Astrotrain tell him this Prime was a kid? "Our universe will never be the same again."

Primus, would he get to the point?

"We Transformers have looked into the face of our creators…" He gave another miserable sigh. "…and seen…the face of an enemy."

* * *

Cleanup began immediately, even though no direct order came from any higher-up. Blitzwing wondered when it would be safe to go out. He debated flying out and making a fast escape. But where would he go?

Even now, as he hid in the shadows, the realization that Astrotrain was looking around the huddled masses of Charr to find his best friend did not affect him. He hadn't cared when he'd set his doom into motion, he didn't care now; there was nothing to move him. Not the insight that he had no one on his side, not the absurdity of him hiding in the shadows of a planet the mighty Decepticons had once ruled, not the yawning swooping shock of death that awaited him the moment he set a transistor into deep space, NOTHING. It was over; done. He had informed Galvatron that he wanted to be defined by his enemies, and that was the way things would be.

He'd been offered a place in the Autobot army…never. He hated these squishy-loving Quintesson slaves, and always would. Except for maybe one. Optimus Prime's successor had _earned_ Blitzwing's respect with responsibility and bravery and a sly sense of humor and oh PRIMUS he sounded like Octane when he went on a tangent over Starscream. 'Starscream thinks….Starscream says…red looks good on him.' Augh!

He heard someone approaching and hid accordingly. "Huh. I need to work on my stealth," a deep voice muttered, accompanied by the thud of an energon cube hitting the ground. "I told Kup to give you clearance for takeoff, so you shouldn't have any problems."

"Doing what?" Blitzwing demanded from the shadows. There was not a lot of light in this pit but what was there showed that the dark red being had a vague idea where the triple-changer hid.

The Autobot leader shrugged. "Leaving. You said you didn't want to join us."

That was true. He had pondered his options but had not allowed the reality to hit him until now, when it landed on Blitzwing in unanticipated tank-mode, like _he_ used to in battle. That was another life ago.

"Is the coast clear?" he asked. Odd saying. Skywarp used it once and they made fun of him over it, so it stuck. The Autobot nodded, obviously not caring about the adage.

"If they're waiting for you, they're far out enough that you might miss them this time."

Blitzwing glanced at the Prime, absorbing the carefully chosen words. This kid was smarter than he let on. "Is there a better place to take off than this one? This place's crawling with pests." He gestured to the cheerful Autobots cleaning up the last of the battle remains.

The Prime bristled at that. "I'd assumed you'd just stay here and rust," he huffed, walking past the triple-changer. "I guess I gave you too much credit." He reached over and opened the door behind him. "There's a hallway leading to a tube that'll take you to Quadrant Four." His optics glowed a soft blue. They would've looked better red, it went with his paint scheme better, but azure they were. And slightly warm, with a point of light like the earth sky. Blitzwing hated them.

Somehow this was Octane's fault, Blitzwing was sure of it. He was the one who'd started it when he stated how silly it was that the two older triple-changers never really formed a stronger, more meaningful alliance, and now that Cyclonus and the Sweeps had taken over, it was too late. Blitzwing had no idea he was supposed to consider Astrotrain any other way than he already did. What was Octane going on about? Long-term attachments? They did not get THAT close to each other, which was what they told him, and Blitzwing capped the explanation by accusing Octane of projecting his crush on the Screaming One onto them. How had that gone, by the way? Octane told them to shut up.

'Snicker.'

"What?" The Prime asked as he watched the Decepticon pick up the energon cube while quietly sniggering to himself.

"Nothing." It was too old a Decepticon joke to tell an Autobot. They used to say that Starscream had the appeal of a Guinea Pigatron, so it figured that the nastiest Decepticon would not only fall for him but that sentimentality would turn Octane into a romantic fool. After their triple takeover debacle Megatron mistrusted his triple-changers, citing their capricious natures as his excuse. He was right. "You used to be a lot shorter," he stated, to throw the Prime off track.

"I used to look different in a lot of ways," he replied ruefully. "Come this way."

* * *

They slipped down an incline into a landing, engulfed in darkness. The Decepticon alighted wrong and somehow the Autobot caught him upright, lingering for a moment with his arms around the triple-changer. Only their optics and the energon cube radiated. Prime was so close. The blue light made his face look angelic. Blitzwing quickly jerked himself away from the Autobot's arms. He could feel a tap on his shoulder and again moved away. (Why was he so touchy-feely anyway? Were all Autobots like this? No wonder contact with them any way than combat made the other Decepticons skittish.) Prime huffed air out of his mouth impatiently.

"No! _Follow_ me!" He transformed into vehicle mode, lights projecting their intended route.

The Decepticon changed into a tank. "Fine. Just…quit doing that."

"Dong what?"

So they all did it. Blitzwing shuddered. "Forget it."

They were going off to the left, plowing over the random rubble until they made it to a tube station landing, in which broken glass crunched under their wheels and treads and reflected what little light the Prime's headlights gave.

"Looks like this hasn't withstood the test of war," he commented wryly, rotating 180 degrees before advancing.

"Whatever. Megatron used to say that Cybertron was built on a slag heap."

Headlights flickered indignantly. "Do you believe everything he told you?"

"He told us the Autobots couldn't aim if we were standing right in front of them." He wasn't moving, forcing Blitzwing to conclude that he had not found a way out yet.

This comment was met with a sardonic snort. "I'd be offended if Ultra Magnus hadn't said that exact same thing at every target practice session." He sighed, softly adding to the statement with a low bemoaning of a time when Ultra Magnus was boss. His companion assumed he was not supposed to acknowledge that. Instead he heard the telltale transforming noise, followed by creaking and a few loud bangs.

"Help me move this pile," he commanded, tossing a rock close to the tank.

He didn't take orders from an _Autobot_. "Move it yourself. YOU'RE the worker, I'M the warrior."

"Did Megatron tell you that, too?" He was barely discernable over the racket he was making.

"Maybe."

The noise stopped as the Prime transformed and directed his headlights beyond the rubble to reveal…a wall. The maroon mech returned to robot mode.

"What?" The tank could make out the Prime's hands rubbing his optic ridge wearily.

"Uh...I don't know how to tell you this, but...the Matrix got us lost."

"What?" What the slag was he talking about?

"Uh..." he was obviously unaccustomed to this kind of predicament. "Some of the voices in the Matrix of Leadership knew of a tunnel here, but the Decepticons must have blown it up, (nervous chuckle) so..."

Blitzwing had NO idea what he was talking about. This kid had allowed a powerful weapon to direct them around the twisting intestines of the planet! "Do you know your way out of here or not?"

The Prime let his hands drop in defeat. His optics were like the sky after a fruitless energon raid. "No."

"Great." Well, there was no point in worrying about it when the way back was merely going in reverse. Blitzwing could get out himself. He suggested blowing up walls to get there quickly, only to be reminded of the fragility of the planet's internal structure. Rodimus, who finally told him his name (Blitzwing had forgotten it), explained that the Matrix of Leadership was a collection of wisdom containing a large forum of patriarchal sparks that used their accumulated knowledge to send signals to his processor regarding the best course of action to take. They did not update with the times and could not know beyond their own realm of existence. During this entire journey they'd been fighting with each other in his processor, driving him crazy. ("I'm sorry I asked.") While Rodimus battled his inner demons, the tank became a mech, sat down, and began to drink his energon. It tasted terrible.

"What do they sound like?" he wondered, placing the rest into subspace.

"A bunch of old guys yelling at once," The Prime replied, sitting next to him and leaning back against the incline they had just fallen from. "They never said anything until I short-circuited myself to get in. Now they won't shut up."

Rodimus Prime was too close. Blitzwing inched away. "Aren't the other ground-pounders gonna miss you while you're down here getting lost?"

He did not take umbrage this time. "Nah. They only notice I'm around when we're in trouble."

The triple-changer stood up, to signal that he was ready to proceed. "That would be all the time."

* * *

"So why'd you do it?"

At long last, the Autobot leaders had come to a consensus in Rodimus' head and directed them back to the landing and off to the RIGHT, where there were well-lit passages and no impediments. Blitzwing got a good look at his Winnebago-ish tour guide and wondered why Octane had gushed so much over Decepticon optic red when its darker cousin had so much more _soul_ to it. The deep vermillion on Rodimus seemed to illustrate Red Evolved, emphasized with orange and yellow flames of war. He was not bad for a ground-pounder; Blitzwing _could_ admit he was one-third terrain vehicle, a little closer to Rodimus than he had originally denied, but instead of making him feel better about associating with the former enemy, he felt more uncomfortable.

"Why'd I do what? You were there. You heard me."

The light above them flickered. The next one was strong, the one after that broken. Rodimus became a mech and turned around to face him with the grace of a racecar, except that he looked threatening. Authoritative. Megatron when he wanted an answer from Starscream NOW.

"You stopped being a follower and became a leader."

"Good idea." He passed by the Autobot and left him there to watch him roll away.

"You know what I mean!" he called after him.

Blitzwing didn't even turn his turret to direct the insult. "It's a triple-changer thing. We don't take anybody's side but our own. You might want to watch that green guy of yours."

Rodimus did not chase after him. Blitzwing would have been more than willing to stave off an attack - in fact, it would have been a welcome distraction from the feeling of impending doom that seemed to grow in his solenoids – but he was denied the pleasure. _C'mon, just jump me,_ he thought, halting in horror the moment he realized what he'd been thinking.

Rodimus shot past him, scraping Blitzwing's side rougher than necessary. The pressure from his fender burned on Blitzwing's body, like the stinging imprint of a slap, but it hadn't hurt. It felt…exhilarating. _Do it again,_ the scraped-up side sang. _A little **harder**._

_

* * *

_

"For a new Prime you've got that hero thing down pretty good." The Autobot did not respond. "Good enough, at least." Still no reply. "Most of us are only good enough," Blitzwing continued, wondering if he were conversing or arguing with himself. "And that's all we'll ever be." It had been a bitter truth to swallow after his attempt to take over the Decepticons had failed. Astrotrain had failed, too, but he had the comfort of still being vital enough to remain in Megatron's favor. Blitzwing became a pariah. That was a talent in itself, he supposed, since he'd just done it again.

"I'd be lucky if they considered me good enough," he concluded, "instead of dead."

"Where do Decepticons go when they die?" Rodimus finally interrupted.

"The Hall of Heroes." He had meant it to be a joke but it fell flat. Ignorance made any snappy retort fail. "Actually, I don't know."

"You don't go to the Matrix…so I don't know, either."

"What? None of your schizophrenic voices know?" He was awarded with a terse chuckle, one that made him feel more relieved than nettled. It made his spark flare up a little. This would be the last Cybertronian he heard laugh, and coming from someone who was easy on the optic sensors made it better. Rodimus actually blinked his tail lights in a friendly manner that could be considered a smile. Blitzwing found himself smiling back, right before he saw his guide plunge into darkness. The ensuing clunking was somewhat muffled.

"Prime?" he asked cautiously.

Blue optics flashed. "I'm here. Watch that first step." Blitzwing smiled again, seeing a gray hand emerge from the deep blankness. "If you transform and take my hand I can guide you down."

"No, thanks." Now that he could process better with energon in his body he recalled that he had anti-gravity and was not afraid to use it; gliding down next to the less-agile Autobot with barely a noise.

"Show-off," Prime muttered, transforming to get his headlights directed properly. Blitzwing grinned in the dark.

* * *

As they wound their way through the charcoal mass of tunnels Blitzwing could find nothing worth talking about with this Autobot. He could hear their engines echoing, the whisper of wind from their own momentum, and the occasional grunt from the machine leading him as he encountered with greater frequency piles of rubble to test his shocks.

"It gets rougher after this," Rodimus advised, ahead on one hill. "Take my trailer hitch."

"It could _only_ get rougher and I don't _need_ your trailer hitch. I'm a _tank_."

He could feel it hovering in front of him: see it occasionally block the red tail lights that told him how much higher his enemy drove. Blitzwing backed away, nearly falling down the clump of debris they had almost surmounted. Prime reached out and grabbed him with some kind of hooking device, hauling him up and over the rest of the mound with an amazing amount of strength. The triple-changer was horrified, and illustrated this by going into robot mode, breaking the grip and hurtling headfirst to the floor, scrambling to regain his dignity as his guide cracked up.

Rodimus wasn't that great. If he didn't have that Matrix –

He was ashamed he hadn't thought of it before. What faux pas would Galvatron overlook if his transgressor presented him with the Matrix of Leadership? He might be forgiven. He'd probably be shot out of space before he had the chance. He might present the gift and _then_ be shot. He might be able to use it to take over the Decepticons…ooh.

One cannot overpower the most powerful being on Cybertron in a _fair_ head-to-head match. All he had to do was take the Prime by surprise; bring him down and dig it out – maybe – or shoot him when he wasn't looking. Better yet –

"So what does that thing _do_, anyway?" he asked as Rodimus caught up to him and grabbed his hand. Blitzwing yanked it away violently. (Why did it tingle so much?)

The Prime acted as though it didn't bother him by grunting and quickening his stride down a tunnel far too narrow for vehicular passage. "Don't know."

"Yeah, you do!" He hurried to catch up, stumbling over random flotsam. The tunnel became taller as the echoes lengthened. "Let me see it."

"No!" Rodimus increased his velocity as Blitzwing closed in on the Prime, breaking into a run for a moment before transforming into a tank at the last minute to completely squash the Autobot.

The blasted freak THREW HIM OFF. How did he do that? Rodimus Prime was supine on the floor once tackled and he still managed to cast off the Deception as though he were one of those mini-bots.

There was a light ahead of them in the next tunnel. Blitzwing transformed and hurried to it first, surpassed by Rodimus. He blocked the doorway, looking terrible and scary. His optics blazed.

"Since the beginning of this journey you've been difficult on purpose. I can deal with that, that's what Decepticons do. The problem is _you're not a Decepticon anymore._ You're a fugitive, your own mech. In order to help keep you alive, like any sentient being I'm sworn to protect, I NEED YOU TO CO-OPERATE." His hand was on his shoulder, pinching the armor in a way that made it shift and twist uncomfortably. The triple-changer winced, not letting Rodimus' touch affect him in any other way but painfully. "We are not going _anywhere_ until you co-operate." He pinched harder, pushing down on his audience.

Blitzwing swept an arm up, breaking the grip and Rodimus' sense of balance, and plowed past the offending doorjamb. "If you want to go back, go ahead. You can tell Kamp that I tried to take your precious trinket and he'll blow me out of the sky – BOOM! – problem solved." He hadn't meant to sit down as gracelessly as he did, but he couldn't take it back.

He turned to his opponent, optics blazing like a blue star as he stomped over. It was thrilling and irritating at the same time. "You don't know how easy it would be to let you have it and fly off to some other planet! Just let you go, take over everything. _We could trade places_! I'll let you take over and I'm sure you'll bring peace to all of us! Or Optimus Prime could come back to life! Or monkeys will fly out of my tailpipe!" His voice and gestures grew more hysterical with every statement. He stopped himself when he realized the Decepticon was staring, clutching his energon cube like a force-field generator to protect him from the Crazy Prime. Rodimus sighed wearily and advanced towards the seated mech. "I don't mean it," he declared falsely. "This thing seems more trouble than its worth, but it's an honor to be its keeper." He got a skeptical glare for that and the Decepticon he approached was inching away.

"Did you want some?" He wasn't offering, he told himself. He was just asking, and if he _did_ want a share, Blitzwing would respond with 'too bad!'

"No, but if you don't have any left, I have these." He dropped a few energon goodies into the cube, making it glow and expand. "They're kind of old, but they get the job done."

"Oh." Prime's smile, now so gentle and reassuring, made him queasy. That had to be it; why else would his solenoids rattle and his whole spark fill with longing? Blitzwing swallowed without noting texture or taste. "How much farther?"

"Not too much." Rodimus angled away from Blitzwing and stared further down the hall. "You'll be out of here in no time."

He said it like he didn't want to think about it. Blitzwing finished his fueling and plunged after the Prime into the darkness, not pulling away when a hand reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Watch out, it's bumpy over here," Rodimus warned shakily.

* * *

Some journeys never seem to end. Some are a continuing corridor of nothingness. The tank and RV avoided interaction for a monotonous amount of time for different reasons. At some point in their travels they had some stupid argument about why there were no drones assaulting them every three feet (Megatron had ransacked Cybertron to get at any life form's energy/parts vs. Rodimus' claim that he had sent teams of scientists to find life and there were only a few beings guarding Vector Sigma and they weren't going that way, anyway). Blitzwing continued to ponder his fate as he carelessly flattened debris and garbage until at long last Rodimus Prime's headlights revealed a well-lit corridor with a partially-blocked opening. The Autobot sighed again and transformed.

"Here it is." He peeled back the minor wreckage to show an inky black universe staring back at both of them. It was…BIG. Dark. A field of unending flannel silence. Blitzwing didn't have enough energon to get him anywhere, but it didn't matter because the Decepticons were waiting.

"This is it, then," Blitzwing announced uneasily.

"Yeah," Rodimus replied, not looking at him. The silence of space reached over to them and crowded out any pleasantries the Autobot leader might have tried utilizing. "Are you sure you don't want to join us?"

This Prime must not know the meaning of the word _dense_. "No."

He laughed gently, grabbing Blitzwing's hands in what must be some kind of Autobot social benediction, squeezing his fingers. Neither pulled away. "I had to ask one more time." His face relaxed, making him look so much younger than he appeared. He looked closer to the young mech others claimed he was; less beleaguered and more alive. It filled the triple-changer with longing again. What the pit. He was as good as dead, anyway. Blitzwing pulled Rodimus to him while leaning into the wall, making both sides of the mech 'clank' loudly, adding a slight pain to the surprise.

It was a sloppy kiss-desperate and bitter, hungrily exploring every corner of Rodimus' inner mouth. It gave the Decepticon electric shocks, forcing his fingers to twitch as the shock ebbed away and a soft whimper escaped from the stoutly aggressive lips that refused to relinquish their annexation.

Rodimus tasted like slightly used energon. Instead of pulling away, he sighed softly. Blitzwing moved his lips into a dirty smile and began again, probing insistently. Rodimus couldn't move; his head was in a fastened position as the triple-changer held him pinioned against the wall. Blitzwing attacked again and again, each time more insistent that the other. His arms did not move, his hands stayed where they were, but his _body_. It was grinding up against Rodimus with the same fervor as his mouth. It felt unbelievable. He didn't want to stop, and the longer he did it the louder his victim got.

"Oh," Prime groaned, hands finally finding Blitzwing's back and scrabbling desperately for a handhold. The triple-changer supposed that the Matrix was telling him that he should do something more productive than feebly scratching, but more than likely NOBODY had ever kissed him like this! (Nobody had ever _kissed_ him, but that was unknown.)

"I could go with you," Rodimus managed to gasp in between assaults.

"You could," Blitzwing murmured, still not changing position or attack pattern.

"I-I could-throw this stupid Matrix away. Leave 'em a note."

"You could," his sparring partner repeated, plunging in again.

"I could take it with us and we'd rule the universe." He wasn't even processing what he said. Oh Primus, Blitzwing was so close to losing it every time he invaded. The intimacy of it made him think scary thoughts, especially when the Prime began to tremble.

"You could," he replied, albeit muffled from preoccupation. He was shaking pretty hard, too.

"I could," Rodimus sighed longingly.

He wouldn't. The former Decepticon had seen these hero types a million times before, and it didn't take much to guess what would happen. His sense of honor would override any spontaneous desires. Rodimus wanted to hide in space; Blitzwing wanted to rule a powerful army. Existence's a glitch.

That thought broke the triple-changer's determination and the next kiss seemed tainted, like picking up an old container of energon and realizing it was flat. He relinquished his hold on the Autobot and backed away only to be pulled back.

"I will find you," Rodimus promised. He meant it. The problem was that he would forget it as reality (and Galvatron) obscured this fleeting desire. Blitzwing was sure he would be forgotten tomorrow.

"No. You won't." No Autobot leader would jettison his duties to explore space for no reason, leaving any idiot head case to master being Prime.

"I will."

He didn't believe it. He couldn't. The body that had begged for contact was engulfed as Rodimus' body pressed harder against him, to seal the deal.

"You could…"

* * *

They could…but it was time to let go, literally and figuratively. Blitzwing had already wasted enough time and energy getting out of here; he couldn't give himself up at the finish line. It had to be done. He convinced himself that this wouldn't hurt..._him_. The former Decepticon's blaster was easy to get out of subspace. Rodimus never noticed as he ecstatically grazed his helmet against Blitzwing's neck and murmured "I could-"

Zap.

* * *

Rodimus was hit with a low setting and poor aim that nicked his shoulder and jerked his arms back, a force that sent him sliding down the wall. He landed on the ground and peered through the smoke. Blitzwing gazed at him a moment longer than he should have, as though unwilling to surrender an impulse that died in his processor.

"I guess Decepticons can miss, too," Rodimus grunted, trying to stop the fluid expulsion with his hand.

"When we want to," was the reply as the triple-changer transformed and took off.

Kup radioed a few moments later, relieved to find Rodimus after a few hours of no response. An unidentified ship had escaped from Quadrant Four, should they open fire or was that Blitzwing? After responding in the latter and revealing his status and location, Rodimus Prime stood up and listened for the follow-up. Kup sent it a few minutes later: the ship had cleared Autobot territory and appeared to be headed for a few other inhabited planets. No known Decepticon interference.

The pocket of air he'd been holding in his intake manifolds released. "Good."

Good enough.


	15. Roleplay

"You wanted to see me, boss?"

Six small words had the ability to make him shiver with anticipation. Optimus Prime glanced at the Autobot in front of him. Ostensibly he had summoned him into his office for a 'chat,' although their activities never took the venue of vocal interaction, unless you counted some rather quirky noises made by Prime's partner in the heat of the moment. After a somewhat flippant joke made the last time, their clandestine meetings were something different, an act that changed the dynamic he and this Autobot had once shared. It made Prime somewhat uneasy, considering the consequences. On the other hand, it was pretty exhilarating to be so bold and disrespectful. Which one was this one? He squared his shoulders to reply.

"Yes. I mean, _affirmative_. You have…um…done something bad."

The still-unidentified mech giggled nervously as he sat down. He leaned onto the desk and smiled in a way that could only be described as a ladylike smirk. "What did I do?"

Prime was not getting any help from _him_, obviously. "Well…uh…_you_…" he stood up from his desk as regally as he could, pointing a finger at the miscreant before him.

"Prowl," his audience reminded him indignantly.

Optimus paused and stared at him in askance. Prowl? "Prowl, you…" what could Prowl do wrong? "You…reorganized my polish bottles and when I was washing myself I grabbed the wrong one by accident. Instead of _shine_ I had _glitter_."

Prowl giggled again. "So I've been a naughty 'bot. You should punish me."

THAT was what Prime had been waiting for. "Get over here and take what's coming to you," he growled. He swept Prowl into his arms and leaned him onto the desk, ready to conquer the sweetness before him, the soft-

"Optimus! You have a face mask!" Prowl hissed.

"Oh. Right." He had forgotten about the face mask. Optimus' head reeled at the possibilities. Prowl looked at him, whole body tilted back on the desk at an angle that made his headlights look bulbous. Those were some _nice_ headlights. Not too small, not too flashy. Optimus wanted to wrap his fingers around them and rub them until they squeaked.

"Does it come off?" Prowl whispered, tickling Prime's ear with his smooth hands as he searched for a catch of some kind to unleash the warrior behind the mask.

"I don't know." He didn't. There had to be a way to get it off, or something.

Prowl wriggled out from under Optimus' grip, blue optics sparkling. "I have an idea." He hurried behind the desk and angrily made a fist, pounding it into his other hand in consternation. "Jazz, we have to do something about those Lamborghini brothers!"

Jazz frowned. "I don't want to be Jazz. You can be Jazz."

Jazz #2 shook his head. "We can't both be Jazz. Be Hound."

"What!" Hound crossed his arms in dismay. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Jazz flashed a look of uncomfortable confusion. "What do you mean?"

Hound wasn't going to admit that he'd been reading Jazz's weblog entries, not after they had promised each other they wouldn't. To find out that Jazz had been secretly lusting after the REAL Hound would not make either of them happy. The Hound in the room decided to play it safe. "Uh…tell you what. I'll be Perceptor. Ironhide, it is essential that the Autobots focus our magnitude of enterprising genius on the subject at hand: the Decepticons."

Ironhide nodded. "Go on. Ama listen-nin."

Perceptor spluttered. He wasn't very good at being a walking Encyclopedia. "Perhaps…we should find a weakness."

"Yew tawk too muuch," Ironhide replied huskily. "Git over heyre and lemme shutcha uhp."

Now that's what he'd been waiting to hear, bad accent or not. Perceptor grabbed Ironhide and tried to drag him over the desk when AGAIN Ironhide pointed out an equipment logistic: Perceptor had a shoulder barrel.

"The biggest one you've ever seen!" Perceptor countered, grabbing Ironhide's fine little rear end and squeezing it as hard as he could.

"SPI-IKE!" Ironhide forgot his accent as he glared down at the human before him. "Either play it right or don't play it at all!"

Spike backed off of the bed that had serviced as a desk. "Well I'm _sorry_ Carly, but I'm not used to pretending I'm someone else!" Why couldn't they go back to watching porn, like normal couples? She was about to snarl some kind of high-pitched retort when a thin wail blasted through the wall; Daniel was up. Carly heaved a sigh and went to go get him, assuming-correctly-that their son was more than likely hungry.

Spike tried to keep things in perspective as she left. At least she was trying. Raul had more than once complained to him that after their first child Lisa didn't want him to TOUCH her, let alone any of the other stuff. Lisa hadn't lost any of her baby weight, either. When she fed Sierra she reminded Raul of a cow, which killed whatever mood he'd been in. Carly had lost some of the weight but still dragged that kid around.

"He's almost asleep," she announced. Daniel remained attached to her like a lamprey, to Spike's disgust. This meant another night with the baby between them. Sure enough, Carly settled down with her newest attachment. Spike didn't want to admit it, but he was jealous. That damn kid got her consideration any time he wanted it, while Spike had to pretend he was everyone short of Bumblebee to get hers. After twenty more minutes he couldn't take watching mother and child together and collapsed onto his side of the bed, pouting. Carly placed a pacifier between Daniel's lips and gently laid him down onto a blanket on the floor. "I have an idea," she snuggled down into the covers before reaching for her sulking husband. "Let's practice being so quiet the kids can't hear us."

Kids? Spike decided that it was just an expression. He kissed her on the neck and smiled to himself. "You have nice headlights, Prowl."

She giggled in response. "Mmmm. Thank you Hou-_Prime_."


	16. Bizarre Love Triangle

Megatron leaned back into his throne with his cube of energon as he watched Soundwave take his time torturing Starscream.

The jet had more fortitude than he showed in battle; Megatron wondered why he only used this vigor when withstanding physical torment. He howled as Soundwave over-fired his circuits with an electric whip but didn't plead for mercy. Inarticulate throughout the beating and the dismantling, he was verbal now. Piercingly verbal. As Megatron's third-in-command pulled his second to pieces, there was no wavering of conviction OR noise.

"_Say it_," Megatron sang in a taunting voice. Starscream grunted, jerking his head away towards to the floor in response. Soundwave did not even glance at Megatron for permission. He fired his gun at the mech's super sensitive wings.

"Starscream," the Decepticon leader declared in a sorrowful tone that sounded anything but. "All you have to do is _apologize_. Say you're sorry and he'll stop."

His arms shook as he barely kept his position on all fours. "Time is on my side." You could hear his circuits shorting as he talked. "I'll wait for my opportunity."

"I won't," Megatron sneered, shifting to drape his legs over one armrest and his neck over the other. He could hear his Air Commander scream again as Soundwave shot at him for a few moments before he began pulling out wires.

Somewhere in the universe there lurked a loyal warrior. Unfortunately, he must be on the Autobot side because the closest thing Megatron could find was Soundwave. Soundwave was a lousy second place consolation prize, who only proved his worth when he was fed energon for his tiny minions or could enjoy the noises the Decepticons he played with made.

This army was hopeless. If Starscream weren't so good at what he did Megatron would have turned him into a coffee table by now. The Coneheads were morons, the Stunticons mindless cannon fodder, Skywarp was stupid and Thundercracker was a wimp and the Combaticons talked back and the Insecticons were no help and the Constructicons wanted nothing to do with him. Where could he find someone who would do his bidding on command, questioning nothing?

"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU_UUUUUUUUUUUGH_!" Just when his pitch couldn't get any higher, it did. Megatron had gotten used to it and its subtle nuances enough to realize that this was the pitch he'd waited for all night. Soundwave had shredded his wings into a meaningless pulp, optic visor blazing in delight, as though this were a game, all while holding Starscream in his arms in a half-nelson. He and his audience waited for the thoroughly chastised act of contrition that would come at this moment.

"I…am _sorry_, mighty Megatron." He said it barely above a whimper.

Soundwave beat him to it, obviously so overcome with triumph he couldn't wait for his master's prompt. "Volume undetectable."

"I'm SORRY!" He collapsed against his torturer as the pain took over his entire body.

Soundwave looked up at their leader, visor almost…_pleading_. Megatron gave Starscream a moment to get his bearings before he started the second part of their routine. He must not allow the grin to escape.

They heard Starscream's circuit sparks accelerate their explosions in fear. He knew what was coming.

"You have not offered a method of appeasement."

Soundwave must have done something different to him this time; his air intakes sounded like wheezing, as though the fans were clogged. Megatron sat up straight, watching Soundwave struggle to keep his grip on the exhausted Seeker.

"What can I offer you that you haven't already taken?" he asked, defeat giving him delusions of nobility as he dripped mechfluid onto the ground. Soundwave tightened his stance in anticipation. Starscream groaned. Megatron hovered over him like a rain cloud.

"We are all beings of pain, Starscream. Pain leads us to pleasure. Pleasure comes to my _loyal_ subjects. You are not loyal; therefore you must learn the hard way." Don't touch him. Let the reality of Soundwave's attacks leach into his subconscious as he realizes the rewards he will gain by submitting to his master. Oh, the power.

"Take me." It hurt his pride to say it more than his vocalizer.

Megatron chuckled, still not touching him. Soundwave could hardly control himself as his hands slid, thick with the liquid results of his prior endeavors. The intakes wheezed.

"You cannot _ask_ to be assaulted," Megatron reminded him, edging closer to his second in command.

"I did not ask for any of this." He was having trouble staying coherent. Soundwave caressed the bottom part of Starscream's face with the gentle touch of a loving parent, fingers tapping on the optics to jolt him back to awareness.

"Not specifically." Still no touching, at least not at this excruciating second. Megatron had been careful to have Soundwave make all of the contact, to inure Starscream to the presence of the tape player so that his handling would be automatically perceived as standard fare. It was discord to the black finger that would soon begin tracing what was left of Starscream's wings in that slow, deliberate tickle that shot through all of the pain and made him quake. "Your laughable attempts to usurp my power have led Soundwave to conclude that you require _extra_ attention." He let his hand float over Starscream's wingtip, watching him shake in fear. "Attention that distracts me from more important matters!" He struck the same hand against his second-in-command's face with a force that knocked Soundwave off balance, too, and sent both Decepticons reeling towards the floor, if not for a last-minute catch from Soundwave. "When you waste my time demonstrating your lack of loyalty, I am deprived of the pleasure of ruling the universe." He placed the knuckle of his finger under Starscream's chin and forced his captive's optics to meet his own. "I want to reclaim that pleasure."

Starscream snorted. Even in this moment when his entire body was broken and there was no hope of escape, Starscream dared to disparage his leader's words. This was proof that anyone could beat him into submission in body but not in spirit, at least not right now, and if Megatron had to act he'd better proceed in the best method that kept Starscream (and Soundwave, to some extent) in line.

The silver leader lifted his head to acknowledge the tape player impatiently shifting his arms to keep the heavy jet upright. "He's all yours." Megatron turned and walked towards his throne.

"What! Wait! Aren't YOU going to take me?" This was not the usual turn of events! After Soundwave beat him to scrap Megatron would scoop him up and ravish him…on the throne…over and over again until Starscream couldn't process correctly. At no point in time had the overzealous pain machine who roughed him up been allowed access. Soundwave gave a nasty chuckle and began dragging his prize out the door. "Megatron! What is the meaning of this?"

The satisfied smirk was almost too much. "Why Starscream! I'm _flattered_ that you prefer me."

"I prefer no one!" Soundwave gave another tug, forcing the jet to talk faster. "However, I was under the impression that you LIKED seeing me suffer."

Soundwave wasn't hearing any of this. He'd worked this mech over like a new instrument, and now that he got to play he was not about to share the music stand. "Megatron unwanted."

"We'll let _him_ decide." Megatron made his way down to the messy Decepticon dragging his feet and clawing at the blue and white arms that held him. He brought his face very close to Starscream's. "Are you sorry?"

"Yes, mighty Megatron," he replied dully. He couldn't very well retract it, even if he wanted to.

His optics glowed like rubies. "How to you propose to make amends?"

Starscream hated his leader. Someday he would rule the Decepticons. Until then, Megatron was the lesser of two evils-a lesser evil without tapes. "I will return to you the pleasure of ruling the universe, which I have deprived you from when I distracted you from more pressing duties."

He recited it so woodenly he sounded like the mech behind him, whose visor had an annoyed glint.

"Excellent." Now came the fun part. He mashed his lips against Starscream for the barest second before pulling away. "Soundwave."

"Yes, Megatron?" His arms slowly relinquished his prize in obedience.

Black hands played with silver buttons on a blue mech. "Join us." Soundwave cautiously reached around Starscream and tentatively touched Megatron's midsection with his right hand while caressing Starscream with his left. The jet whined at the sensation and leaned back onto Soundwave, this time to allow better access.

Megatron stifled an evil chuckle. Some days it was more fun to test loyalty by making a sandwich.


	17. DON'T DO DRUGS

Christmas on the farm _seemed_ like a good idea. A lot of ideas seem good when you think 'em up in a hazy smoke of oblivion. Why do I keep forgetting these things...

I forgot that there's nothing to do out here. Nothing. After a five hour car ride I slammed the driver-side door to hear its echo travel across the wind-swept empty fields and hollows until it hit the only clump of bushes in twelve miles. Ugh. It's so quiet.

My family isn't. There's three kids and I'm the youngest. The other two married young and squirted out Squirts immediately, so now there's nine of us in a three bedroom farmhouse so guess who gets the couch? Not even close. Sam and Spouse got one room, Pat and Spouse got another, male children got the basement, female children got the family room, and I got...the attic. Freezing cold.

I forgot how stifling farm life is. After a night and a day of work, prayers, kids screaming, no room to move and only one bathroom, arguments over how the new pastor will never replace the old pastor after his sudden death ("He was a great leader. This new kid whines too much." "Aw, ma, give 'em a chance!"), I was counting down the minutes until night time, when I could hide from all of 'em.

After dinner I got out of cow milking duty early. I got a call from the old crew, but I knew that they just wanted to drink and smoke pot and give me shit for leaving, and I didn't feel like drinking tonight. Talking to Dillard wasn't a bad idea, though. I had a bag in the car...

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. There was a new coating of snow outside and it felt like 31, 32 degrees Fahrenheit but ever since I went to "that fancy Midwest college" my internal thermometer's been off. It felt like that balance between thaw and freeze. Just the right to be outside in my dad's milking jacket. I'm behind the bushes that block the wind, feelin' no cold, when one of the barn cats came up to me. He was one of the litters born before I left. I named him and his litter mates after the Beatles. John, Paul, George, Ringo, Stuart, Pete, and Yoko were different mixes of orange tabby. This one was John. Or Paul. I'm not sure. How weird is it to have fur? I'd look kind of funny, like I was wearing a sweater or something and what would-

BOOM!

It came from the sky. I don't see things when I burn one, so I know this is happening, but I'm not fast enough to do anything but watch. I can't really move, anyway. John/Paul's ears go back and he sprints to the barn, hoping like a bunny on crack. Hehe. Crack...

The whole ground shook when they landed. Dirt and snow flew everywhere, what used to be a hill is now a hole, and all I can see is silver metal and ray gun blasts.

I think I shit myself.

A big fat black hand rises out of the hole, elbow up, and punches whoever's at the bottom so hard I can feel it. I should be running or something but I can't feel my legs, either from the Bud or the cold. I decide it's okay to roll into the bushes and hope they don't notice me.

The silver one was shoved back into the air, which gave him time to fire his cannon on the hole. I hear something squeal.

Hey. I know that dude. He was on CNN. Mega-ton. No, wait, Mergatroyd. No, that's not it...

"You Megatron miss! Me Slag hit!"

Oh yeah!

Megatron got hit with the full blast of a Triceratops' horns (I swear to GOD I'm not making this up) and laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. He looked so funny laughing I kinda laughed too.

"You'll have to do better than that, you dimwitted Dinobot!"

"Me Slag WILL!" He jumped out of the hole and flew in the air, growling and snarling and getting a hold of Megatron's arm like that German Shepherd my friend Chad trained to attack cattle rustlers and Megatron was hitting him the same way, instead of punching him in the nose. No, that's a shark.

"RAR!" They hit the ground again and slid for a good half a mile away. I need to do something. What was it...

BOOM!

Never mind. They're back. The Dino-dude…turned into a robot. Just twisted like a Rubik's Cube, from a Triceratops into something human! What kind of shit did I spark, man?

Punch punch kick shoot-hey, I saw that move on the WWE! Kick ass! Megatron knows how to break someone in half over his knee, too! The dinosaur fell over and said a bunch of shit I couldn't hear. He sounded like a modem coming on line or something.

Megatron did that laugh again. He pointed his big black gun at the other dude's face. "Acknowledge defeat."

"No!" Slug (?) whined. "Me Slag best!" He tried to sit up and couldn't do it, falling back to the ground and staring at the sky. "Do it."

For some reason this dude couldn't stop laughing. Do they have giant robot jolly green? Giant…jolly green. Hehe.

"Are you certain?" The gun sounded like a jet taking off, it was so loud.

The Dinothingie didn't make any sudden moves. "Me Slag win next time."

"There will be a next time, Slag. Believe it." He threw the black part of his gun and it - _holy shit it's rolling this way_! AUGH!

It…stopped. Right in front of me. If I had anything left to crap it came out right now. Oh my God. A HUGE black…thing…it looks like a gun barrel or something, and it's blocking my view. It's blocking me. I can get around it, I think. There's a lot of dirt that almost buried me but if I climb around that…it's all over me…man, what a buzzkill.

"Ah…" One of them whimpered. I've heard that noise before.

I told you before; I'm NOT making any of this shit up. Megatron was on top of this Dino-dude and he was kissing his neck and working his way down to the other guy's chest. The other guy…liked it. A lot. I've heard those noises before. That's a happy noise.

"Who's the best?" Megatron asked, sounding like Tim Curry with Susan Sarandon underneath him.

"Me Slag."

That started the choking. The Slag dude choked back, even getting Megatron upside the head with a good punch, but this was a strong Decepticon. He had Slag on his back and wasn't gonna give him any chance to fix the problem. They were struggling for a winner but were stuck, shaking with the effort. Nobody seemed to be able to get a chance.

"Yield, you blasted pantheon of stupidity!"

"BITE ME SLAG!"

Megatron took that as a challenge. He slammed Slag's head into the ground a few times. (That happened to me in a fight once. Hurts like a motherfucker.) Then he totally vampired him. Chomp. Slag squealed and started beating the hell out of him but everything went super blue.

I swear on my grandpa's grave that I am not making this up. This warm, blue light comes out like a nuclear bomb and melted all the snow around me and thaws out my frozen legs enough so that I could finally feel 'em, but I still can't run because the dirty snow I'm standing in is now mud. In five seconds the next wave comes after it, bright red light that freezes the mud and gets me cold again.

I'm stuck in two feet of frozen mud. There are giant alien robots about two football fields away from me. I swear I'm quitting every drug I ever liked.

"What you Megatron do to me Slag?" He was sitting up, looking like my Senior Prom date. After.

The silver dude snorted. "Something Optimus Prime should have done to you a long time ago: vanquished you." He was looking for something. Uh-oh. It's over here and I'm still stuck.

"Me Slag not vangished!" I can hear him coming but I can't do anything. I'm not gonna scream and cry like a little bitch but I did cover my head. The ground moved when he pulled his gun barrel out of the frozen mud and I lost my footing. I was free…looking up at this HUGE dude…who wasn't even looking at me. He was looking at his pouting Dino-buddy.

"You said so yourself: you'll win next time."

Slag smiled at that. Megatron took off one way and the Dinobot went the opposite direction a few seconds later.

I found my family in the basement, huddled in a corner like a twister was coming.

"Chris! What happened?"

I have no idea what to tell them. "Earthquake." They don't believe that, but I don't care. I need a fuckin' shower.


	18. Recycle

Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip-

Underwater base. Impractical. Leaky. Puddles collected and oxidized the metal hull, allowing organic life a chance to infiltrate. Around the basement the hulks of failed projects loomed, casting odd shadows from what little light permeated.

Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip-

Wildrider crouched. Impatiently. Tired. His lack of sustenance had caught up with him, draining whatever strength had kept him awake for this long. His body had taken him as far as it could, but now he needed help and only one mech could do that. Rumble.

Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip-

Someone approaches. Cautiously. He is small, furtive, desperate to seek asylum from whatever demon is chasing him. A soft, sweet bluish purple mech with a seductive red visor. How serendipitous. Attack. Fight, subjugate. Embrace.

"Wildrider! Get off of me!"

Pull back in confusion. "You liked our games before, Rumble!"

"For the last time, RUMBLE is red, FRENZY is blue!"

* * *

Soundwave declared that he had found Rumble in the basement. 

"Excellent," Megatron couldn't help but declare with some smugness.

He hadn't expected that punk to be spying on him during a particular battle. Now he had to get him before he told anybody what he'd seen.

He, Soundwave, and Starscream crept below into the dank lower holdings of the Decepticon base, where junk accumulated in puddles of scrap and rusted, waiting for the moment it would be called up for its moment of glory. If the hulking machines had failed him once, he wouldn't find anything salvageable, but the Constructicons got angry if they couldn't recycle.

There, in the midst of a fiery argument, Rumble was yelling at a banished Stunticon.

"Get off me! I'm Frenzy!"

Wildrider backed off, confused. "You told me the opposite last time."

"NO I DIDN'T! Why can't you get that through your processor?"

"Because you ARE Rumble!" Starscream could never resist ruining a moment to make a dramatic entrance.

Wildrider looked up in surprise, realizing that he was trapped.

"Why is there a reject hiding in my basement like a turbo-rat?" Megatron demanded, coming closer. "Perhaps this is a fitting location."

Never corner a Stunticon; you won't like how he reacts. Wildrider plunged into the piles of scrap with Rumble tightly gripped as his hostage.

"After him!" The silver mech cried.

"Fantastic idea," Starscream snarled. "I'm not going into that mess. Who knows how much rust is in there. You NEVER rust, mighty Megatron. Go ahead. We're right behind you."

Megatron wasn't falling for that one. He called the other Decepticons for help.

When he had banished the Stunticons to the desert he had hoped they would either return thoroughly chastened or die of starvation. Wildrider had come back to steal whatever was available. Megatron realized that he had forgotten what a rogue, hungry Decepticons would do to gain even a little energon.

The Constructicons made nasty faces and complained about all of the loading and hauling they would have to do, but they began clearing out the basement faster than expected. Longhaul moved while the others piled up everything, carefully stacking what had potential for usefulness at a later date, and as they waited Starscream demanded to know what was so important about catching Rumble.

"He has been neglecting his duties."

Starscream snorted. He knew full well what duties Rumble had been 'neglecting.' He'd been switching his designated 'pay Megatron physical tribute' nights with his co-workers for favors (or to return of blackmail material) for months. This was not the reason they were getting rust particles in their air intakes. If the silver mech wasn't talking, then perhaps the usual game of Irk the Leader might help pass the time. "Decepticons do not usually discuss what they do with you behind closed doors, but my trinemates have."

"Your trinemates assume I do not know how they conduct themselves behind my back," Megatron countered. "They are fortunate I have not decided to make examples out of them."

Starscream should be surprised but was not; perhaps it was because outwitting Megatron had a .001 percent success rate. Still, pushing his buttons occasionally yielded interesting results. "They have informed me that you don't kiss them."

"Your point being…" Massive hulks of metal shifted, causing a dart of color to expose itself before hiding in a new place. Skywarp and Thundercracker closed in, running into Ramjet and Astrotrain by accident.

"They were under the impression you don't kiss your underlings. So I asked around. You kiss none of them. But…you kissed _me_."

It took a long moment of recall. Ah, yes, that day he decided Soundwave could help him teach Starscream a lesson. He'd been so busy pretending the jet was someone else he'd forgotten himself. "I knew you'd have such an inflated opinion of yourself you'd be stupid enough to assume it wasn't merely done to elicit a better reaction from you," he replied, thinking of the 'I did it to mess with you' excuse.

Starscream laughed at that. "There's your culprit!"

Rumble marched up to his leader, Skywarps' gun at his head. Thundercracker had Wildrider in a similar hold. Both captives had defiantly fearful optics. Wildrider's looked a little more desperate. He should be handled with caution.

Soundwave called Rumble back into him, pressed a few buttons and declared the information his tape had stored was now officially erased. Starscream announced that he KNEW there was a better reason for being down there than Megatron's sex drive! What was on the tape? Or did his fellow Decepticons want Starscream to tell them what HE knew?

Megatron had more imperative things to worry about than Starscream's inconsequential hearsay, but if Skywarp and Thundercracker were talking, than the others were-more than likely-muttering under their breaths. He motioned for Wildrider to approach him, and before anyone could comment, he grabbed the Stunticon, wrapped his arms around him, dipped him low, and kissed him as deeply as he could.

And kept kissing him.

Five minutes later…

Soundwave sighed, irritated. Starscream should learn to shut up every now and then. This was a waste of time, and since the evidence had been destroyed no one else knew about what Rumble had witnessed, so why this needless demonstration of affection?

Rumble only had a sliver of recording: Soundwave picked up nothing much, but it made him wonder.

* * *

_Decepticons! Attack!_

_(Noises of battle.)_

"_We meet again, Slag!"_

"_It me Slag's turn to win!"_

"_You must defeat me first!_

_(Noises of combat and grunts)_

"_Prime! (Laughs) You gotta see this!"_

"_Silence Autobot!" (BOOM!)_

"_Not again," Optimus Prime sighed, sounding exasperated. "Megatron! Put down my Dinobots!"_

"_Not a chance, Prime!"_

"_Get your OWN!"_

_(More sounds of battle.)_

"_Rumble! Return!"_

* * *

Skywarp and Thundercracker silently asked their Air Commander why Megatron was doing this. Starscream must have given them a clue via internal radio because they both suddenly looked very, very startled. The rest of the army shifted uncomfortably. The Constructicons cared not, wanting this exhibition to end so that they could go through their archeological finds. 

Megatron pulled away and released his Stunticon, who staggered backwards onto the floor, face holding a bizarrely crooked smile.

Their leader glared at his subjects and smirked. "Let this be a message to all of you: I do who, what, when, where and why I want!" Megatron brandished his cannon towards a sulking Starscream. "HAVE I MADE MYSELF UNDERSTOOD?"

The Decepticons didn't know how else to react. They nodded numbly.

"Excellent. Now…back to the main control room. I have a new plan. Wildrider!"

The Stunticon jumped up and tried to focus. "Yeah?"

"For now, you are allowed rations of energon but be prepared to compensate for it later."

"Okay." What else was he supposed to say?

Megatron nodded and amended their meeting time to a half an hour from that moment, leaving with Soundwave in his wake.

Drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip-

"Put that one there, we can use it the next time he wants a collector!"

"Why did you keep THIS? It used a different voltage than the other guns."

"I thought we could try it on the new one. It just needs an adaptor."

"Eh. If Megatron can keep a Stunticon around just to irritate Starscream, then I guess we can figure out a use for this thing."

He should react. Illogical. Foolish. The truth reflected his new status for the moment: providing entertainment for their Megatron. The Decepticon base would house him and feed him, keeping him provided with power until the whims of his keeper changed.

As for Rumble…traitor. Liar. He had tried to negotiate to no avail, nothing to him but a hostage. He _had _given him the information in question, which meant that Wildrider knew.

And this could buy him a longer stay at the base.

* * *

Drip drip drip drip clank drip drip clank- 

Out of the darkness, into the light. Into the promise of sustenance and redemption. Salvaged, recycled, his use would be discovered soon enough. Wildrider left the basement and smiled to himself. He would see what happened tonight.


	19. Curse of the Datsun

Liu Kang didn't have a chance. He'd done his crouching fireball and a flying kick, but he was no match for Sub-Zero's unpredicted freeze attack.

"FINISH HIM."

Would Sub-Zero be merciful? No such luck. With a loud _crack_ and crimson spatter Sub-Zero ripped his opponent's head off.

"SUB-ZERO WINS!"

"Slaggit!" Bluestreak dropped the game control and jokingly glared as Ironhide laughed victoriously. "I'll beat you sooner or later."

It was a pointless threat, since Ironhide was infinitely superior to every Autobot's playing skills and always would be. The only mech he sometimes couldn't beat was Prime. Still, Ironhide minded his manners and nodded politely before stretching his arms. A few joints snapped and cracked as he sighed.

"I'd better get going," he said.

Bluestreak nodded. "I'll see you later." Of course, with his nasal accent it sounded to Ironhide like "Aye'll see yoo leyter." It was cute, but a little whiney. He opened the door before reaching for the red mech for their customary hug.

"Good night," Ironhide murmured softly, drawing him in. They held each other for a moment or two.

"Gud Nyght, Eyeronhyde," Bluestreak replied, looking dewy-opticed with happiness. He had good reason to be.

After a disastrous first date and a lackluster first week of coupledom, their relationship had been smoother than Sunstreaker's skidplate. They laughed, they joked, they played Playstation…Bluestreak had managed to go three earth months without _seriously_ offending Ironhide. Life couldn't be better.

He couldn't resist that handsome gray face. It beamed at him, exuding a purity that reeled him in. Ironhide leaned forward and kissed him.

Bluestreak tasted slightly sweet. He pulled away quickly, panic blazing in those formerly hazy optics. Disconcerted, he said good-bye to his date. Ironhide walked out the door in time to collide into Jazz and Prowl.

"I saw that," Jazz announced, smiling in that friendly way that made you know that he was teasing. "Nice!"

Ironhide smiled back. "Four earth months and he still wouldn't make a move. I got tired of waiting."

Prowl shook his head primly. He could understand Bluestreak's reserve. "He's your subordinate. A more tactile relationship would initiate complications that interfere with your authority."

"Too bad I can't get him a transfer," Ironhide speculated, glad to change the subject. They squeezed past a troupe of mini-bots earnestly whispering to each other, arguing over who would be a better fit for something not mentioned in their brief passing. They were Jazz's boys. "I could have my way with him at any time if he transferred to _your_ unit."

"Hoo wood yew prefer in hs sted?" Prowl had a strange accent, too. When the Autobots had begun their army Ironhide watched the accumulation of sharp-voweled mechs swell. Most of them had a difficult time understanding him but he'd had it WORSE. Thank Primus for Inferno. Without him Ironhide would feel like a freak of nature.

"Tracks?"

Jazz chuckled. He knew what that would do for the group dynamic. The twins would be infuriated to lose their friend for their enemy.

Ironhide countered that Bluestreak wasn't supposed to be a part of the frontline anyway, so why was it such a big deal?

Prowl reminded both of them that they had painstakingly argued and weighed the benefits of each Autobot's contribution to the carefully-drawn teams, and that to change them this late in the game would be detrimental, pronounced 'deh-tree-mentall.'

"Then why is it so bad I want to do something other than Playstation with him?"

Prowl smiled wryly. "Affection is not necessary in a relationship."

Jazz gave a startled noise. "Rillee?" He was somewhat easier to understand, depending on how much he let his elocution slide, which was not often when around Prowl.

"Reely," the other mech replied smoothly. He walked the walk of an officer who did not expect his declarations to go unchallenged. Jazz hung back a step, head tilted and visor slightly ridged as though assessing the mech as well as the situation. "Affection, howehvir coovirt, eventooally leeds too moor obveeus oveuratoors." His arms did not sway as he walked. "Befoor lohng, evereewon knoos thaht yoo are dayting a certain mech. Won can have a cloose tie without the extraineeus mess of toching eech other."

It was as bad as the day he'd met Tracks. If only he weren't so tired and stressed out. "I'm sorry, Prowl, I didn't get any of that."

"He means that if you're kissing behind closed doors _now_ you'll be kissing in _front_ of those doors in no time. It'll undermine your authority." Jazz wasn't smiling anymore.

"Exactly what I said." He seemed somewhat annoyed that he needed an interpreter. "Except for my conclusion that affection is an extraneous mechanism."

"Extraneous?" Jazz seemed to be stuck in 'replay' mode. Prowl asked him if he were all right. "I'm fine. Peachy keen, jelly bean. In fact, I just remembered something I have to go tell my mini-bots." Prowl leaned in for the customary good-bye kiss he got when no one (except Ironhide) was there, only to falter mid-air as Jazz spun around and hurried off. "Later."

The Datsun recovered beautifully. "We have not heard from Megatron as of late," he reported to the Vanette.

"Not even a ransom message?"

"No. Red Alert and Blaster have been monitoring Laserbeak and Buzzsaw, but there has been nothing unusual in their surveillance. Jazz believes that the Decepticons are waiting for us to send out a search party."

"We are." They walked into the commissary and stood in line for energon, not saying anything until they were at a table. The line had been short for this time of night. Few Autobots stayed awake this late, and fewer vocalizers going off meant that confidential talk was kept at a minimum. Ironhide waited until the twins had blustered out before he leaned in to ask Prowl a critical question that his explanation hadn't answered.

"I don't know yet," the strategist replied. "Something tells me that _they_ don't know yet, either."

* * *

"You need to kick me _before_ I go into attack mode," Ironhide instructed. 

Bluestreak stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration and tapped the Autobot-sized controls, still too slow. Ironhide was kicking the slag out of him with his patented punch-kick-kick-punch-punch-punch. He gave a pause, ostensibly to let Bluestreak have a turn at attack, but in reality it gave him the chance to get a little closer to him. Blue's optics darkened for the slightest moment.

Knock. Boom. Clank. The twins gave a warning that they were coming in, albeit quick. "Hey, Blue!" Sideswipe called, plunking himself in the middle of Ironhide's carefully constructed proximity. Sunstreaker actually YANKED the control out of Ironhide's grip.

"Do you mind?" the Vanette demanded.

"Nah, not at all." That punk would get his one day, but for now, he had to be allowed to do whatever he wanted. As of late Ironhide was eager to make jokes about the irritation that was Sunny and Siders and Bluestreak went from embarrassed giggle to awkward silence to pursed lips of indignation but Ironhide didn't notice. "You're so far ahead, anyway, let Blue get a little ground, eh buddy?"

"You're going down faster than the day Powerglide saw the Aerialbots!" the Datsun retorted, attacking his new opponent with fresh vigor.

He didn't do any better with Sunstreaker, who was remorseless and inconsiderate. "DUCK! Ah-haaaa! Loser!" He leaned into the television and elbowed Ironhide in the chest, causing the receiver of the not-so-subtle jab to clench his jaw and growl slightly. Sunstreaker didn't notice.

"You know, I think we're out of snacks," Sideswipe commented. "Yah wanna go get some more, Ironhide?"

"No," the other red mech retorted. He be slagged if he were booted out by these two.

"Awww! Don't get mad! Sunny! Give 'em his controller back."

Sunstreaker didn't budge. "He said he didn't mind."

"I never said that!" Oh, frag it; Ironhide should go anyway, it was his turn to be in the main control room. "Never mind. I'll see you later, Blue."

"Let me walk you out," Bluestreak offered, pausing the game and starting to stand up.

"NO!" both twins replied, looking away before their determination could be confronted.

"I'll do it," Sideswipe said quickly, shoving the door open and escorting Ironhide out as forcibly as he could. "I need to get something out of our room, anyway." Although uninvited, Sideswipe followed Ironhide to wherever he was going. They walked next to each other down the corridors filled with the stifled noises of the Autobot's private rooms, making pleasantries neither felt like really saying, but whatever was foremost on their minds had to be saved for a later moment; there were far too many listening audiorecptors in this hallway.

"You've been dating him for, what, three months?"

"Four."

"Fooooour…" he looked thoughtful, intently staring at the lights ahead of them as though they held all of the answers. "You know, he talks a lot and sooner or later without meaning to he tells us everything."

"I figured." It would be strange if Bluestreak DIDN'T. He told Ironhide more than he ever needed to hear - and then some.

"He's kind of freaked out over you kissing him."

This was none of Sideswipe's business, but Ironhide decided merely to grunt.

"Sunny's pretty protective of him, but I'm on your side on this one. If he likes you he should let you get past first gear, right?"

That was it. "I don't think I need to be talkin' to you about this," Ironhide replied, trying to be diplomatic. "I'll talk to him about it myself."

They didn't have a lot in common, and obviously did not know what to say. Sideswipe wracked his processor. "Okay…if you don't want to talk about that…hmm…where's Optimus Prime?"

Slag.

"He's on a classified mission. Don't know when he'll be back."

"Then why are the mini-bots missing, too? Aren't they the first to go out and look for somebody?"

"Something unrelated." Think of a distracter. "He probably needed a vacation after the second coming of the Spaghetti Incident." Good one! Walk away, Ironhide. Don't grin. Don't peak back to see what he's-slaggit, he's doing that human gesture again. How did they get one finger up and keep the others down like that? They had a good laugh about it but nothing in the interaction made either mech comfortable.

* * *

Curled knuckles rapped an impatient staccato on the door before them. 

"Jazz?" a muffled voice asked hopefully.

"No, Prowl, it's Ironhide. Can I come in?"

"Yes," the voice replied, sounding distracted even though the door.

Prowl sat in his perfect office looking less put together. He didn't seem to acknowledge his visitor, which was rude enough. Ironhide decided to overlook it. "I thought you'd like to know that the mini-bots have returned with an interesting story."

He nodded absently, mouth turned down in disappointment. "I expected Jazz to contact me."

"He sent me," the Vanette replied dismissively, shrugging. He didn't want to be here, anyway. Prowl and Jazz were tense all of the time, making them undesirable companions, and lately Prowl had been almost nasty.

"Proceed." It was in a 'make it quick' tone.

"He's not on earth."

"I concluded as much."

It still surprised Ironhide how Jazz, who was constantly seeking stimulation in pleasant company from anyone new or interesting, had chosen someone who fell into a predictable pattern of behavior, down to his 'I thought so' statement every time an Autobot delivered news. It irritated Ironhide, who did not have patience for people who were more than willing to say _ex post facto_ that they'd thought 'this' would happen.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Prowl put down the datapad he was reading. "I require substantiation before I formulate a hypothesis. For tangible evidence I issued the mini-bots. Please, continue."

"He's on Cybertron."

Prowl nodded, knowingly. "As I deduced."

He couldn't hold back the glare. "Great. While you're at it, why don't you tell me what he's doing there and when he'll be back, so that I can tell Blaster to shut up?"

Prowl huffed angrily. "Your sarcasm is not appreciated. This is why I prefer Jazz to deliver my news."

It was a call to an argument, and Ironhide didn't feel like it. Besides, Prowl never lost and Prime had no tolerance for in-fighting; Ironhide had delivered the first part of his message.

"Silverbolt wants a meeting tomorrow morning in the meeting room."

Prowl snorted derisively. "I did not authorize that." He noticed the open stare and caught himself. "What time?"

"Six." Something was wrong with Prowl. Ironhide got out of there.

* * *

Silverbolt wanted Prowl, Ironhide, and Jazz to know that the Autobots knew what was going on. 

"I suspected they might," Prowl retorted, bored already.

Jazz and Ironhide huffed air out of their intakes. The words 'shut up, Prowl' came more and more often as the vise that was the pressure to find Prime tightened.

"What are they saying?" Jazz asked.

Silverbolt still looked so very young to Ironhide. The mech was uncertain of his position in this army, within his gestalt, in the sky, and it showed. He tried to be authoritative and confident. "They think the Decepticons have him and you guys are trying to buy more time. Huffer's taking bets that he's dead. Cliffjumper's sure that YOU killed him," he pointed to Prowl, "and Trailbreaker says it's all a big joke and Optimus will come back with Megatron's head as a beer stein. What is that?"

"Like an energon mug. Same thing." Jazz turned to Prowl. "Any suggestions?"

"Spin control," he replied. "Silverbolt, start a rumor that we told you nothing's going on, but that Ironhide interrupted me by saying that what he does on his month off is nobody's business."

"HEY!" Ironhide protested. "Why do _I_ have to be the leak?"

"Because that particular statement falls within your personality components." He seemed uninterested in retaining his patience with the participants of this ordeal. "We require fodder for speculation, and it is not in Jazz's or my personality. You have a tendency to leak things every once and awhile, intentionally or not."

"Thanks a lot."

Jazz normally softened Prowl's words into something more appealing. Today he stared at Silverbolt thoughtfully. "A month off is not going to work."

"It's the safest, least compromising statement we can issue."

"It's also a heap of slag! These guys aren't gonna believe that! 'Bolt, what could we tell you that you'd believe?"

Silverbolt gave another uncomfortable look that made him seem even younger. "The truth."

Prowl shook his head.

"Maybe if he was meeting up with Ultra Magnus on Cybertron or something-"

"Yeah! Go with that!" Ironhide interrupted. "It's better than him being on vacation!"

"No, it does not. Ultra Magnus is dead."

"Then make up somebody else," Jazz countered, sounding as irritated with Prowl as Ironhide felt.

Silverbolt's discomfort morphed into disgust. "Why are we lying?"

"Because there are Decepticon spies everywhere," Prowl retorted intolerantly. "If we tell you the truth, and Laserbeak overhears it, then Megatron will overrun this base within ASTROSECONDS."

Jazz nodded. "He's right, man. We're in trouble as it is. We have to protect everybody 'til we can find him. If that means we have to say something else, then that's what we'll do."

"You know…" Ironhide's mental processor was racing. "Why don't we have the Aerialbots go look for him on Cybertron? They know the layout pretty well."

"I have considered that option and discarded it already. They are not familiar with Shockwave's drones, or any layout of Cybertron other than what they have experienced themselves."

"Oh." He hadn't thought of that.

Jazz had tuned them out again, staring off into space. "Silverbolt…we don't know where he is. That's the truth. If we tell everybody that, the entire army will freak out. Nothing good'll come out of it, believe me. This has happened before, and nothing good came out of everybody knowing it then, either. Tell ya what, if you don't want to lie, then don't. Just say that we didn't have a satisfying answer 'cause we're trying to keep the Decepticons from finding out what's really going on. We DID tell you that."

Prowl objected, but Ironhide was enthusiastic. Silverbolt acquiesced, thanked them for their time, and left.

Silence reigned after his departure. "So now we need to plan another search party," Ironhide began. "I can take my squad."

"No."

"What d'ya mean, no?"

Jazz answered for Prowl. "We can't afford any more searches. You heard 'Bolt, the rest of the Autobots are talking. They're gonna talk a lot more if we call any more search parties. You know Megatron has to have heard it all by now, and he hasn't attacked yet."

"Which means," Prowl added, "That either he's waiting for an excellent moment to attack – and if so, we require a full army - or he knows where Prime is and has kept his location secret, thus he will attack soon and we need a full army; OR-"

"Or he's looking for Prime too, which means wherever we go we're gonna meet up with the D's and have a disadvantage." Ironhide finished for him. "So you'd rather wait for Megatron to either attack or find Prime first. Great strategy."

Jazz snickered.

"I have decided to order Blaster to begin a beacon frequency," Prowl replied, stung at both Ironhide's disdain and Jazz's endorsement. "We shall have a response from any Autobot encampments at Cybertron within a few earth days. THEY will search for him."

"Good idea!" Jazz exclaimed, somewhat surprised. "I forgot we could do that."

Ironhide nodded begrudgingly. "That'll work." The Cybertronians knew what was going on better than they did. Their underground network would find Optimus sooner than any search party, and because the beacon frequency was not on a wave the Decepticons primarily used, it was virtually undetectable.

"Thank you. Now Jazz, I wish to speak to you alone."

"Can't. I'm busy," the Porsche replied, standing up and departing quickly. "Later."

Ironhide saw the Datsun look exasperated for the barest of seconds before concealing his emotions with his usual bland face.

* * *

Another night with two extra dates. When Sunstreaker and Sideswipe tried to out-stay him, Ironhide did something he'd promised he wouldn't do: he excused himself to get another drink and called Jazz. 

"Will you get them out of here and let me have a moment's peace?" he begged.

"Can't," he replied flatly. "We got a response from the beacon: Prime hasn't been back yet 'cause he got caught."

"Leakin' lubricant! I'll be right there!" Ironhide rushed into Bluestreak's room, explained that he'd been called in unexpectedly, and rushed back out. Blue followed.

"Are you mad at me, cause I don't want you to be mad, I just like hanging out with the twins and you at the same time, and I don't want to lose my friends-"

"Blue! This has nothing to do with you! I have to go to work. If you think we've got a problem then don't wait until you think I'm mad at you, _talk to me_!"

"I thought Sideswipe-"

"YOU! Not him!" They were in front of the main room door, where Jazz was frantically at the controls of one end and Prowl at the other, neither listening to what the other said. Blaster rushed past. "We'll talk later. I have to go. Goodnight." He walked away without any touching. Ironhide had had enough of this stress that was tugging him in six different directions. "What's going on?"

Blaster motioned for him to shut the door. "We got a signal from Ultra Magnus."

Prowl nodded, but Ironhide was taken aback. "I thought he was dead!" His entire group had disappeared under the radar when Sky Lynx had returned to Cybertron after dropping off a few more Autobots on earth. Sky Lynx could not find them and disappeared a few cycles later in mid-search.

"Officially, he is," Prowl replied. "Until Prime declares otherwise, he IS dead. What did he say, Blaster?"

"He said, 'How can I talk if I'm officially dead?'" the tape player replied, grinning. Jazz burst into laughter, Ironhide chuckling a split second later. Prowl, who usually ignored jokes, blew up.

"THAT'S NOT FUNNY. REPORT!"

Blaster was puzzled. "What crawled up your tailpipe and died, man? I was only kidding. He said that they found Prime's trailer by itself, no Roller, and a whole lotta proof of gunfire. Scouts found Roller's body a few breems away. No sign of Prime."

"As I concluded."

It was enough to make you want to dislodge his throttle. "If you know so much, tell us where he is!"

The other Autobots' optics turned to Prowl. "Did the D's get him?" Blaster asked, treating Prowl like a Magic 8 Ball.

He stared at the monitor, as if the processing required all of his concentration. Jazz walked over to him and touched his shoulder. Prowl yanked his entire body away, acting like his sparkmate had electrocuted him. Jazz looked hurt.

"I don't know," he finally asserted. "They might have, if Prime used the trailer as a distraction, but he wouldn't abandon Roller." He stood up straighter and punched more buttons on Teletraan's keyboard. "I don't know."

* * *

When the world became too complicated, Ironhide found a simpler place to vent his frustrations. Too bad he wasn't getting any better at hitting the target. 

"Bluestreak still hiding from you, huh?" Jazz asked as he sauntered in, blaster over his shoulder and cheer askew. He would have asked about Prime, but Mirage was in the room, looking as despondent as possible.

"How'd you guess?"

Jazz had a smirking smile when he wanted to. "Why else would you be in the Engine Block Room?"

"I _beg _your pardon_?"_ Mirage, affronted, glared at Jazz from the booth next to Ironhide as he shot his troubles away.

Jazz slung his gun onto the elbow rest in the slot on the other side of Ironhide. "Come on, Raji! Nobody comes here unless they've been dumped or denied! Oh. Sorry." He had forgotten that Mirage had experienced a string of dating disasters as of late.

"Quite all right," he said, in a voice that indicated otherwise. "Have you received any messages from Prime?"

"That's classified," Ironhide brusquely interrupted. "Go back to shooting."

He nodded sagely, entire posture skeptical. "Classified. Of course." The spy turned back to the task at hand and Jazz stared at the target apathetically, not really motivated. He was listless.

"You wanna talk about it?" Ironhide mumbled. He wasn't much of a listener, and Jazz didn't like to unload his troubles, so asking was mostly a formality.

"A little." That meant he didn't want to say anything but it was really bothering him. "Prowl."

Ironhide nodded. "He's been a little busy."

"So have all of us," Jazz reminded him, finally picking up his blaster, sighting his target, opening fire, and frowning slightly at the results. "Teletraan, take it down a notch. Gracias." This attempt gave him better results. "Analysis!"

"Aim is 16 degrees too high and .23 centimeters to the right," Teletraan responded.

"Same problem every time," he sighed ruefully.

"I haven't done anything to scare him, just _kissed_ him," Ironhide growled. "So what does he do? Gets bodyguards!"

Jazz cackled while Mirage shook his head. "If you don't mind my opinion-"

"I do." Ironhide had no idea what Mirage wanted to say but could guess. "Unless anybody you liked spent every waking hour dodging your kiss good-night, I don't want to hear it."

The blue mech took umbrage at this. He returned to his misaligned firing and did not interrupt Jazz's proclamation that getting someone to want you was as impossible as interrogating Ravage.

"Worse. Ravage makes stuff up. I've never heard of an Autobot faking a field explosion."

Someone did not join their snorts of amusement. "I have," Mirage retorted, ignoring the ensuing glares.

"No, you haven't!" Jazz protested, pointing his gun at Mirage as he talked. "How would they do that?"

The spy moved away from Jazz's line of fire. "You can reverse the polarity of your blaster and send a radiation that's pretty close."

Ironhide turned back to refilling his ammunition, disgusted. "I don't believe you."

"I do," Jazz announced. "Humans do a lot of weird stuff that'd twist your fan belt. Autobots playing with their guns when they're not getting any action doesn't sound that far off."

All three mechs glanced at the firearms before them and promptly subspaced them, making up excuses to go do something else with their time.

* * *

He had an old game: Super Mario 3. "You can be Mario, I'll be Luigi," he announced cheerfully. Bluestreak's attitude was apparently to ignore what had happened in previous encounters. 

"Sure." Ironhide sat gingerly in the prerequisite spot classified as 'far enough away.' "You know, I whipped Prime's tailpipe on this one."

"I know," he replied gleefully. "This time, I have a new twist."

"What, the twin's will come in and distract me so I'll fall off and not get enough coins to open the secret world?" he chuckled. Sounded scary.

Bluestreak's smiley face fell like Wile E. Coyote off a cliff . "That's not funny."

"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry. He didn't feel sorry. It didn't matter if he were right or wrong; he had to apologize to the slighted party. Easily insulted individuals could be tiring. If only Blue weren't so fragging cute…

Bluestreak didn't make any noises of acceptance. He began to babble about how much games had changed over the years, and how the greatest game ever was Yoshi's Island.

"Yoshi's Island! Blue! I'm ashamed to know ya!"

Bluestreak couldn't hold back the laugh. "I know! But it's cool! You eat stuff and make eggs and throw it at the bad guys! If you have different colored eggs you can get stars and coins and yeah, Baby Mario's crying when he gets knocked off your back is a pain, but I just turn the sound off-except when I have the timed button, 'cause then I have to hear the sound it makes 'cause I could fall off if I don't know when it'll stop-"

He had to shut him up or his processor would explode.

"-I really hate having to ride the Goonie birds and I keep hitting them the wrong way-"

'_Don't say anything, Ironhide. You'll be sorry,'_ he thought, desperately trying to keep Mario from getting nailed with a boomerang. No such luck. He lost his Raccoon power. He was able to stomp on the offending party, pretending it was the prattling Bluestreak.

"But Mario Two was fun. I liked the story a lot better. Sunny thinks that boxing's the best, but I don't know. Sideswipe says Mortal Kombat's the best-"

Mario fell down into a hole and Ironhide tried not to blame Bluestreak for it.

"Still, the Playstation is good. I tried Starfox one time but it's SOOOOOOO boring." He stopped long enough to concentrate on avoiding a Goomba. "Sideswipe's right, though. Mortal Kombat rocks."

"He would." He didn't know what he meant by that; he liked the game as well. There just seemed to be this need to take his annoyance of the situation out on Sideswipe.

The four note noise made when one paused the game sounded like a slap in the face. "I think you should go."

"For what?" Ironhide turned to face the young mech and prepared for an illogical confrontation.

Bluestreak faced him without any hesitations. "You've been making cracks about Sideswipe and Sunstreaker for weeks and I'm tried of it. When you make fun of my friends, you make fun of me." He had a prissy face while he said it, making it hilarious if it weren't the hundredth time Blue was doing something stupid.

This time he wasn't going to back down. This was ludicrous. "Primus, Blue! I was kidding!" He threw the controller down and stood up, furious. "You've insulted me since we started dating and I forgave you for it every time! Leakin' lubricant!" How was he supposed to keep this relationship going when Bluestreak was hexagonal nuts? "Don't bother getting up, I'm leaving."

Slam.

Jazz and Prowl had a nasty habit of walking down the hallway the minute Ironhide left Blue's domicile. This time, Prowl was fifty feet in front of Jazz, one looking grimly determined, one sadly annoyed. Both glanced at the red Vanette, nodded, and proceeded to continue their journey.

"Ya wanna go shoot?" Ironhide whispered to Jazz. The Porsche gave a wry expression that silently alluded to the last conversation held there, which made Ironhide laugh genuinely, anger easing up slightly.

"Sure. Let's go get Raji and see if he's up for it."

* * *

Before they arrived at the range Jazz gave an update: Megatron was building another fort on the moon. Cosmos had been spotted but luckily not _completely_ shot up. Wheeljack and Ratchet were working on him. His report was incomplete and would be that way for awhile. No sign of Prime and wherever the transient clan of Ultra Magnus' had fled was not locatable. 

"So Megatron's about to blow us up, we still can't find Prime, Ultra Magnus disappeared, and our only flying spy's out of commission."

"Leakin' lubricant!" Ironhide was getting a lot of mileage out of that phrase today. "I'm gonna need more ammo."

Mirage emerged behind them, still sulking. "What's yer problem?" Ironhide demanded, tired of their third moping around without revealing any details.

"Nothing. I can't get what I want I don't want what I can get."

"That's the way it goes sometimes," Jazz remarked ruefully, aiming carefully. He still fired too high.

Ironhide seethed over Bluestreak's stupid overreaction - that and he still resented the twins' interference; he just wanted them to stay away while he wooed this unappreciative mech.

The Porsche made a wry face. "The Curse of the Datsun, man. They don't need nobody or nothin'."

That fit the description of Prowl and Smokescreen. Those two acted pretty similar to the other in that respect. "So I'm doomed?" This didn't look like it was worth the time investment.

"No, not doomed. Just in for a loooooooooong wait."

"Great." This was not what he wanted to hear.

Mirage commented on how sad it was that they had to jump through so many hoops for a physical reaction that never lasted long enough.

Jazz had a raunchy comment about how another mech was not always necessary. "You always have the electric stick," he rapaciously commented, firing so quickly and often that smoke came out of his blaster. "It's your last hope."

Ironhide cracked up while Mirage blustered in shock. "WHAT! That's to clean out your blaster, not…not…"

"Why do you think Skyfire breaks so many of them?" Jazz demanded. "Not because he uses his gun that often. You were the one who knew about reversing polarities on a blaster, so I thought…Raji, what's up with you?"

Once he got the joke Mirage couldn't stop laughing. "I can't believe YOU would need THAT!" he managed to gasp before dissolving into giggles.

The saboteur made a face. "Every now and then Prowl needs to take five from my 'smothering' and I have to go without. Not being one who would cheat on his sparkmate…again…I kind of have to use something else." Mirage couldn't stop, eventually slumping down to the floor. "I'm glad I could make _your_ day." Jazz glanced down at the Autobot convulsing on the floor with paroxysms of laughter. "Just remember to start with a low setting."

It was out before he could stop himself. "Where would I put it?"

Ironhide joined Jazz in a chortle. "Wherever it tickles."

* * *

It sat on his shelf, like it always did. When you pressed a button it sent a burst of electron clouds that were to dissolve the carbon scarring inside of your blaster. He didn't want to try it out completely, he was only curious to see if it did what it used to, back when youth forced one to hump everything sentient or turn to a substitute. It didn't hurt; it sent a small jolt up his wrist that surprised him a little, but it wasn't anything he hadn't felt from anything else. Then again, his wrists weren't very sensory-oriented. If he applied it to the joint where his legs met his midsection, that might be a different story… 

Ironhide put it back on the shelf and left his chamber before he did something stupid. Curse Jazz for bringing it up! He was kidding, fraggit! If he accidentally hurt himself or the Porsche found out, Ironhide would never hear the end of it.

* * *

Slag, he had five minutes to get to his meeting, he'd never make it! Ironhide hurried out of his room to run into the Lamborghini brothers. (What was with people crowding around room doors? Were the dormitories really such a high-traffic area?) 

"We heard what you said about us," Sunstreaker growled.

"So?" Ironhide did not fear these two. "You know it wasn't anything you wouldn't say about me."

Sideswipe laughed but his twin scowled deeper. "He got us there."

"No, he didn't."

"Oh, shut up," Sideswipe replied, elbowing Sunstreaker. "I thought you'd like to know that Blue's sorry he threw you out last night."

He couldn't stop himself from crossing his arms and matching Sunstreaker's expression. "Why won't he tell me himself?"

"He will. He sent us to come get you."

It reminded him of a Mafia movie: two hired thugs come to get the hapless man who must meet with the Godfather. It didn't help that Blue was sitting at his desk and rotated his chair to face him, waving the twins away and leaning forward solemnly to say "I'm glad you could make it."

"Aw, come on Blue. Cut the slag. I've got a meeting and you just sent Thing 1 and Thing 2 to get me so you could tell me you're sorry."

Bluestreak blanched. "Why are you being so mean to me?"

Ironhide leaned both hands onto the desk, facing the occupant. Bluestreak slipped backwards. "That's why. After four months, most mechs would lean in and kiss me. You moved away. It's this fear I'm gonna bite yer head off that makes me wanna bite yer head off."

"You're going to be late to your meeting," he replied nervously, inching his chair further from the desk.

"Bluestreak," Ironhide sighed. "If you don't like me anymore, just say so. I'm too old for these games."

"It's not that. It's just that…I-it doesn't feel right."

The Curse of the Datsun. Alive and well. "When do you think it'll feel right?" he demanded, trying not to sound impatient. He made his way to the door; he was late.

"I don't know." He wasn't meeting his optic. Ironhide had enough.

"I like you, Blue. I just want to show it, too. If that's such a bad thing I'll leave you alone."

Bluestreak continued to look away. "When I'm good and ready I'll do it."

"Fine." Ironhide turned away from him and tried not to stomp down the hall. Luckily the twins were not around to see this.

* * *

Before the meeting started, Jazz and Prowl had been silently hissing at each other about something, an unspoken issue that tainted the entire conference. Their animosity could be felt, like a fourth mech in the room. 

"Cosmos should be sent back for more reconnaissance."

Ironhide was not sure how to react to this. "We already know what's going on! Why don't we go in and kick some tailpipe already?"

Jazz laughed, because he wanted to take it as a joke. Prowl did not. He berated Ironhide for forgetting their previous discussion.

"My circuit loop's not broken, Prowl. I just wanted to make sure you were payin' attention."

"Attention…" he trailed off, shuffling datapads. "Cosmos. Recon-"

"Forget it, Prowl. I'll take care of it." Jazz stood up, acting as though he were volunteering to take out the garbage, again. "Megatron always builds his weapons on a hill. If I take the back way and get Cosmos to distract them in front, I'll be back in time for _Seinfeld_."

Jazz wasn't a high-level Special Ops Autobot for nothing.

* * *

He missed the first act. "It's a re-run, anyway," he explained, sliding in between Ironhide and Prowl. They were watching the show in the commissary, bereft of any other Autobot accompaniment. For some reason most of them were big _Martin_ fans. "What's going on?" 

Jerry and George were yelling at each other when Kramer burst into the room. Prowl turned it off and asked for a status report.

Jazz turned it back on. "I couldn't get close enough. Cosmos is in medbay."

Prowl turned it off and stomped out. "I'll get a more thorough report from Cosmos," he snapped. Jazz ignored him, turning the television back on.

When the program ended he and Ironhide were joking around and somehow they got on the subject of Bluestreak's refusal to cooperate.

"Man, you weren't kidding about these Datsun's being numb!" he chuckled.

Prowl came in from his investigation at that precise moment and made the announcement that Cosmos was being protected by Ratchet, and that he was ready to go to bed. Jazz nodded, rising up and following but not taking Prowl's hand like he used to when it was just the three of them.

He walked down the hall and eased himself onto his recharge plate in time to hear Prowl demanding to know _why_ Ironhide thought that all Datsuns had no feelings.

Usually when they began arguing Ironhide turned his audiosensors off, but for some unexplained reason he felt the urge to eavesdrop on this particular conversation. He told himself it was because they'd used his name.

"You don't," Jazz replied, somewhat hostile. "If you did you would have made your move a long time ago, instead of asking me if I was mad at you."

"Your actions were following the guidelines of a flippant remark I had made several days from today." Prowl always sounded tired when he parried with his bondmate, as though he realized the futility of these matches. Too bad he wasn't that way when he wanted to fight with Ironhide. "I understood the rationale."

"And did nothing about it, huh?"

"Negative."

"Glad to see you care."

"Why? You know I'm not that way."

"What way, above Deceptitraan status?"

"That was uncalled for, Jazz."

"I'm an Auotbot, fraggit! I need it more than once an eon!" He sounded…angry. Granted, they were all under a lot of stress, and he'd just failed a mission, but Jazz didn't get angry. Ever. "I backed off like you wanted me to. You said you thought affection was extraneous. So I stopped. Even when you figured out why I wasn't all over you all the time, you didn't bother to continue that line of processing and assume that you could prove you valued my affection by doing it yourself. Why haven't you met me halfway and tried anything?"

There was a long pause before Prowl muttered something barely discernable.

"I don't care. Do it like you used to, like this…" Light noises, like metal on metal, seeped through the thin walls of the ark. Ironhide turned his audios off. He turned them back on. He _wanted_ to hear this. He had to hear something, _anything_, and he was ashamed to admit it, but if somebody was getting action and it wasn't him, then at least let him savor the sound, if only to imagine it was for him by proxy. He glanced that the electric stick sitting next to his blaster on the shelf by his plate. No. _No_. NO. Well, maybe just a small hit. It had been long enough, vorns…Jazz moaned loudly, covering up Ironhide's surprised gasp of delight. Wow, he'd forgotten what this felt like. Primus, it was mortifying to require mechanical help.

"Mmm." Somebody was doing it right over there. Ironhide echoed the sentiment. He could feel the stick's shock spreading the warm current throughout his body, making his circuits tingle with that nice twinge. Very nice. Warm, soft, with the slightest tickle. He could picture Bluestreak straddling his legs and running his hands over Ironhide's windshield, fingers squeezing while his optics burned with desire. _'Hide, come on, quit playing and give it to me,_ he pleaded inside of the Vanette's processor, pressing his tongue into an eager receiving mouth and moving it eagerly. A hot shot of electricity blasted through a cable and Ironhide opened his mouth to receive the intangible, panting slightly.

"Yeah, right there!"

He wanted it pretty bad. Another shot of pleasure seared through Ironhide and he grunted, trying not to be louder than the couple less then five feet away from him on the other side of the wall. Prowl let out a noise unheard before. Please let him do it again.

BEEP!

"Prowl, come in, this is Blaster!"

"Don't," Jazz snarled, clear as a bell. "Don't!" Clank. Clank clank clank-

"Prowl here."

"PRIMUS ALMIGHTY!" No doubt about it. Jazz was mad. "YOU COULD HAVE LET IRONHIDE GET IT! HE'S ON CALL!" SLAM!

Ironhide wasn't anywhere near any kind of sensory overload; still, the mood had been killed. He put his toy away, worse than when he started. He shouldn't have done that. How embarrassing. He was glad that he was seated and working when Prowl banged down his door a few moments later.

"I need you to locate Jazz for me," he began without preamble. "_He_ made contact." Before Ironhide could ask he was told. "Prime is south of the space bridge. I have sent Wheeljack and Ratchet to render aid."

"I'll go get Jazz." Ironhide had a good idea where he'd be hiding: the same location all tactilely frustrated mechs went.

* * *

"Take that! And that! Bite me, dust boy!" 

"Hey Jazz! We found him!"

Mirage's head popped around the gallery divider to the right of Jazz's. "Where has he been?"

Slag. The encounter with the stick must have him forgetting the most basic officer procedure of checking your surroundings before shooting off your mouth. Jazz hurried past the Vanette, signaling to Mirage that they would talk to him later.

"Ratchet and Wheeljack are bringing him back."

Jazz nodded grimly, visor blazing. Ironhide didn't say anything.

* * *

Prime was in almost showroom condition. Roller…was not. It was the lack of remorse their leader seemed to show at the moment that stymied them. He preferred to lean back on his desk and demand an update of what went on while he was away. "Ironhide, status report." 

"Cosmos found the Decepticons building a gun on the Moon."

"Ha!" Prime had been sitting at his desk, arms behind his head and legs propped on his desk when Ironhide said that. He put his feet down and sat up straight. "Just as I suspected!"

"That's Prowl's line," Ironhide snorted. Prowl didn't react. Instead, the Datsun supplied the rest of their account: Jazz's failed expedition and Cosmos' repairs. He asked what orders Prime had for him to carry out.

"None. Megatron will stop what he's doing the minute I call him." Ironhide, Jazz, and Wheeljack exchanged bewildered glances while Prowl contacted Teletraan-1 to send an outgoing message and stepped back, arms folded. Megatron's face appeared after a few minutes of static.

"Optimus Prime." He said it like he'd been waiting for this call. "I just completed my transmission with Shockwave."

If Prime had a mouth he would have grinned. He leaned back in his chair and propped his legs back up on the desk. "Did he tell you what happened?"

Something in the way he said it took the light out of Megatron's optics. "_You_!" he hissed. "I have warned you not to interfere!"

"Too bad." Optimus crossed his arms behind his head, leaning back further on the chair. "Your plan is in the same scrap heap you'll be in someday."

"I'll get you for this, Prime!" Megatron howled. "Decepticons! Back to earth!"

"But what about the gun?" Starscream demanded.

"Leave it! We have more important issues to address! _One being Optimus Prime's certain destruction_."

"Promises, promises," Optimus interrupted, before Starscream began his tirade. "See you later." He had Prowl turn off the device and declared he would answer all of their questions in a timely manner, but first…he produced from subspace a small glowing blue cube.

"Ultra Magnus' spies reported to me that Shockwave's drones were looking for this in Wheeljack's lab. Recognize it?" He tossed it to the inventor.

"Sure do. I thought I couldn't get it to full power to be any use?"

"You couldn't. Megatron didn't know that. When he couldn't figure it out he had Shockwave start digging Autobots out of his holding cells and tearing them apart to find the answer. When he got it out of someone close to me he had her send a distress call."

"Elita-1? Does that mean-"

"They're fine, Ironhide." He look up at him, optics reassuring. "Even Chromia."

It was all he could do to keep himself from cursing Megatron all over again. He'd been holding them captive forever, probably starving them and torturing them. At least they escaped, with Prime's help no doubt.

"It was a ploy to get me to go there and surrender. When I arrived, Shockwave had a whole army waiting, but he made a fatal error when he let me - but that isn't important. I escaped with the device but lost Roller." Optimus stood up, reaching for the center of his chestplate. "Thanks to the beacon you sent there was more backup than I thought I needed, which saved more than a few prisoners." He nodded to Ironhide, to verify the implied: he'd rescued the female Autobots…although (Ironhide couldn't resist pointing out) he could have used their help, which would have arrived in the nick of time if _Prowl_ hadn't been so bent on keeping them on earth. Optimus interrupted a glarefest by stating that they might have gotten into even _more_ trouble coming onto Cybertron, and that Prowl had done exactly what Optimus would have ordered him to do if they _had_ been in contact. Prowl resisted the urge to smirk.

"We located Alpha Trion, who made repairs and instructed me to use _this_."

His fingers fumbled at a catch in the plate, scratching like a mouse at a cupboard door, finally pulling the front apart and lifting an inner mechanism to reveal the strangest object Ironhide had ever seen.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It looks like a disco ball!" Jazz whistled.

"It is called The Autobot Matrix of Leadership," Prime thundered. "It is the accumulated wisdom of billions of year's worth of Primes. Alpha Trion placed it in me when I was re-formatted all those years ago. I didn't know how to use it properly, until now."

"What does it have to do with the cube?"

Prime nodded reassuringly. "The cube has concentrated energy prisms to magnify any beams shot through it. Megatron could use it to magnify his cannon a quintillion times over."

"Destroying entire planets," Prowl concluded.

"Correct. Megatron had hoped that when Shockwave lured me to Cybertron I would use The Matrix to activate it for him. What he had not expected was…" he stopped himself. "...but I figured out his plan and kept it on me the whole time, instead of letting Shockwave have it, as expected."

"Why would-"

He wouldn't let Ironhide complete the question. "Once I had the activated cube, I knew I had to take it back here with me. So I did."

Jazz cocked his head expectantly. "How did you do that?"

"And what does it have to do with Shockwave?" Wheeljack chimed in.

Optimus busied himself with putting The Matrix back. "Shockwave was still under repairs. My escape was easy," he announced, dismissing his troops. "Megatron is going to come here, looking for this, but he won't get it."

The disco ball in Prime's chest make a sucking motion and all of the blue flew out of the cube, leaving it dark and metallic. "Wheeljack, I think you can come up with a good way to destroy this. Ironhide, stay back for a moment."

The others left and Ironhide remained sitting. "I need your help, old friend," Prime began, standing up.

"Go ahead, shoot." The last time Prime employed his assistance Ironhide ended up buried under a rockslide and Wheeljack was frantically digging him out, claiming he didn't know that his invention would do THAT.

The Autobot leader left his desk and began pacing the room. "I did some things I'm not proud of."

"We all do, Prime." This was not the first time their leader had come to Ironhide with his conscience on his sleeve. The best advice to give was to encourage him to take whatever course of action he was already planning. "But you'll fix it. You already know what's the right thing, just do it."

Optimus nodded hesitantly. He stared off into space for a few moments before dismissing his friend. "Thank you, Ironhide."

* * *

Jazz was waiting at the shooting range. "What happened?" 

Ironhide placed his gun down with a thunk that echoed for an eternity. He let one word reverberate. "Nothing."

Jazz nodded. If Ironhide wanted to talk, he would. Perhaps he would be interested in a bit of gossip. Mirage was on cloud nine-

"All I wanna do now is fire this gun and think about nothing." Ironhide shot and shot and shot and tried to tune out all around him. He heard the Porsche sigh loudly.

"Man, nothing's going right."

"I know, Jazz."

"You know what's scary? I think Prime did something nasty to Shockwave."

"Nasty how?"

The door swooped open and a preoccupied Mirage waltzed in, all smiles. Jazz gave a knowing look.

"Are ya gonna tell us why you're so happy or just keep dancin' around like you're over-energized?" Ironhide drawled wryly.

Mirage didn't seemed influenced by this frank demand. "Perceptor's a free mech again. Existence…is _good_."

"Woah!" Both he and Jazz cracked up. "So that was the bee under your hood!"

There was more to this than Jazz had previously considered. Perceptor being a _kept_ mech was only known to four others. Two of them were in the room. The third wouldn't talk if his spark depended on it. The last extra Autobot was the one who'd demanded secrecy.

Ironhide beat him to it. "Did Perceptor tell you he was datin' Prime?"

"_Prime?_ I didn't know he was with PRIME!" Mirage's mouth dropped open. "He just said it was something he didn't want to talk about it!"

Ironhide slapped his hand against his forehead. "Slaggit, Prowl was right!"

"Always is," Jazz replied sarcastically. He knew better. "Raji, buddy, do us a favor and forget what Big Mouth just said."

Mirage promised not to tell. They turned back to their own devices, but the spy was not enthusiastic. He smiled the whole time, not really doing anything with his gun but half-heartedly polishing it, preoccupied with his imaginary future relationship with Perceptor. He had a small smile adorning his face and optics slightly fuzzier than usual. They glimmered.

Jazz tried not to laugh. Although he couldn't cite his sources, the saboteur knew a lot more about what went on around here than he probably should. He'd known about Mirage's secret longing for someone unattainable, and his ensuing misery in learning the truth. Jazz was aware of how Prime had been getting frustrated with his current affair, of how the incompatibility and lack of affection-except for a few increasingly infrequent clandestine meetings-was not worth the guilt he felt for sneaking around on his fellow Autobots. Something had happened on Cybertron, but Ironhide had reacted to his hints with bewilderment, which meant that Prime would not confess his sins. Their leader had done the honorable thing and terminated his current relationship, for both parties' sakes. It must be dizzyingly liberating to have the ability to do that.

"I guess this means you'll put the electric stick away," he teased, to Mirage's surprised consternation.

"Uh…yeah," he admitted guiltily.

This disturbed Ironhide. What else did Jazz know?

* * *

"_I didn't want to admit it…but it's good to see you."_

Megatron, alone, landed in front of The Ark and demanded a conference with Optimus Prime.

"_Well, if you really think about it, I don't think that this is what we want."_

Optimus Prime refused to allow the other Autobots to come out and help him, ordering them to wait in the entrance and keep an optic on Teletraan in case more Decepticons were nearby or coming in another entrance. Ironhide was among those frustrated that they could not finally fight.

"_We can be friends."_

BOOM!

Megatron was firing his ion cannon at Optimus with the fury of a million nebulae. "PRIME!" he screamed, red optics beyond frightening.

"You should control that temper of yours," Prime reprimanded in his John Wayne voice. "Your troops will think you're a maniac."

He tackled the truck, slashing at him furiously with his mace. Prime took his usual callous approach to Megatron's one-on-one fighting.

"That's your best attack? You are _pathetic_! Last year's model!"

"DIE, PRIME!" Optimus had Megatron in a headlock. Jazz thought for sure he'd give the Decepticon leader a noogie, if these were ANY other fighters. Optimus handled him like an errant child.

Ironhide couldn't understand any of it. Even during this match he couldn't concentrate without thoughts of his long lost Chromia permeating him. They were inevitable. Why did a former lover always seem better after a certain period of time, no matter how tumultuous it had been? She didn't want him. He had been devastated. He vowed to never again let anyone become that valuable to him, but Blue had grown on him, which was dangerous. Right now it was best to avoid him. Be aloof, stand-offish. Let the warm desire cool off. He moved a couple of feet away from the silver Datsun. He didn't notice.

Optimus was winning over Megatron, whose army had not come within the parameters of the Autobot compound yet. "I'm bored of this. Blaster! Call Omega Supreme!"

Megatron probably would have tried to dismantle Prime until he were spare parts if a blast from the large Guardian hadn't changed his mind.

Megatron took off, still unaccompanied. Strange. "I will destroy you someday!"

"Blah blah blah…" Optimus Prime walked away from the skirmish as unfazed as he had entered it. He'd been more flippant than Jazz, Sideswipe, and Powerglide combined. Ever since his return their leader had refused to let anything bother him. There was a happy spring in his step. The Autobots turned away from the entrance and went back to work.

He bounced up to his secretary (Ironhide) and asked him what was on the docket today.

"Nothing. You have a free day, fer once."

"Really. Hmm. Do you think the Dinobots are ready for another combat training session?" he asked, optics twinkling.

Ironhide could not care less. "It's your funeral."

Prime bounded away. "Cheer up, Ironhide. I kicked his tailpipe!"

"What's up with OP?" Jazz queried after yet another re-run of _Seinfeld_.

"Something happened on Cybertron," Prowl responded.

"Well, DUH." The two were no longer damming up their hostilities. "I'd think somebody who spends his free time doing the New York Times Crossword in ink would tell me something a _little_ less obvious."

Prowl's patiently calm face fought for control. Jazz looked sorry he'd said it.

"I wouldn't have to illustrate so simply if you did not leave me with the impression that you ignore the obvious whenever it suits your convenience."

Jazz laughed a pretend laugh but one got the distinct impression he was about to detonate, so Ironhide slipped away to his room, only to overhear their angry fight on the other side of the room, which ended with an explosive double door slam.

It were as though he lay after the shocks of an earthquake. The silence pressed all around him, too thick. This was ridiculous. He jumped off his plate and went to find Bluestreak.

* * *

Luigi jumped on the turtle, picked up his shell, and flicked it at the low-laying brick. He accidentally hit himself and lost his larger status. Worse yet, the mushroom got away before he could get it. Bluestreak tried not to curse. 

"The shell's bouncing back," Ironhide warned him. Too late!

"Oh no!" It was Ironhide's turn. He sped through the level, as usual, giving Luigi in his next the ability to go into one of the mushroom houses and get the frog suit.

"Uh oh!" The hammer brothers had moved again, thus forcing Luigi to take them on and die doing it. "I can't do any of these right!"

"You just need more practice," the red mech replied unconvincingly.

"Uh, right."

Mario had finally arrived to the flying fortress. Ironhide tried to make the Italian jump fast enough as the heavy artillery fired at him and the screen continued to pan. He had pounded one of the floating boxes that produced a fireflower and was about to gain firepower when he was aware of Bluestreak crawling across from 'far enough away' to 'close.' He leaned in and kissed him.

The second part of the Curse was revealed to Ironhide, to his fury: Datsuns make you wait for lousy kissing.

He was TERRIBLE. He sat there as though all he had to do was press his lips and wait a few seconds: no reaction, no other touches, NOTHING! He pulled away from Ironhide and giggled nervously. Mario scraped against the left pane until he fell off the flying fortress and died, but no one noticed.

"What was that for?"

Bluestreak sat back down on his side and smiled. "I talked to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker and they told me to quit being such a wimp about it and that you wouldn't hurt me but I was still scared and then they told me the best way was to take you by surprise but I still wasn't sure so we asked Smokescreen and he told me to use a visualization technique but that still didn't work so he had me practice by pretending that you were right in front of me and kissing Sunny's mirror but he caught me and started making fun-"

The gabbing was no longer endearing. So much had changed in three seconds, all because of a lousy kiss. LOUSY kiss. The worst. It turned Ironhide off completely. He saw Bluestreak no longer as potential but someone who's time was up.

"This isn't working out, Blue." He didn't care if he were interrupting some speech about how Bluestreak managed conquered his fears to accomplish greatness.

"Huh?" This was not what the Datsun expected to hear.

"I've been thinking about Chromia, and how she knew we weren't gonna work out but she couldn't tell me because she didn't want to wreck our friendship, and how she wasn't sure how to tell me so we did a lot of stuff we shouldn't have until I thought we were going to bond. I've been seeing a lot of things going on around here that you haven't, and the signs keep saying that I'm doing the wrong thing, making you do something you don't want to do. I can't keep chasing after you, just to be disappointed in the end and you feeling bad about it." He glanced at the sniper, who looked relieved instead of upset. "That's not fair to either of us."

"We'll stay friends?" Bluestreak asked.

Ironhide nodded. "Yeah. If that's fine with you."

"That's great!" he exulted. "Man, I must be feeling the same way, 'cause that's a load of my mind. You know, I kept thinking there was something wrong but I wasn't sure-"

He let him talk for another twenty minutes before finally breaking his silence and stating that he should get going.

* * *

They were fighting again. One was tired of nagging the other, reminding his partner that they'd been without for far too long, and that if something didn't happen he'd probably tackle the nearest Decepticon and ravish him, too. Jazz's words and the previous experiences echoed tauntingly while the electric stick sang to him like a siren. It was for his sanity's sake, he argued, reaching for it carefully. Ironhide turned his audios off, resigned to the fact that the only machines that offered a giving, uncomplicated relationship were the ones that came with batteries.

* * *

Optimus Prime was looking at the shelf at the back of his office, where a large brown rock captivated his attention. He took it off the shelf and stared at it. He took down the image of Elita-1 and held it in his right hand, comparing it to the object in his left hand. He put the image back on the shelf and turned away, again facing a tearstained Perceptor. He had a lot of explaining to do. 

How did one tell a story in which an Autobot greeted with an army of drones responded by tackling their ringleader and pinning him to the floor, which was what _any_ of them would've done? The blank light that substituted a face flickered as he made an unusual noise, one that sounded like he _enjoyed_ being supine on the floor under him.

"Hit me," the faceless voice commanded. "Show my drones who is the alpha mech in this fight."

Prime assumed that this was a psychological ploy to confuse him and decided instead to put Shockwave in a half-nelson as they kneeled on the floor. He put his rifle to the main computer next to them and shot their motherboard, deactivating most of the drones and motivating the satellite drones to begin repairing, instead of rescuing their leader as he was dragged out of the room.

Again, nothing any other Autobot wouldn't consider an excellent strategy.

Once they were in a large room alone, Shockwave began his resistance by breaking free and opening fire. Optimus Prime discovered that the Decepticon couldn't shoot his own foot with a Guardian's blaster. He hid behind what looked like valuable equipment and let Shockwave destroy it. After dodging enough shots to render any and all of the lethal machinery useless, Prime hid behind a pile of scrap and was debating his next course of action when a large purple being shoved him into the wall.

Prime fought back. As he thrashed against Shockwave it occurred to him that something wasn't right.

The golden light looked down on him, piercing his armor down to his spark. "We're not so different," Shockwave announced in his dark voice. "Slaves to our duties, forced to be the sentinels of our respective races until our death, only to be replaced and forgotten before our corpses are completely recycled…" He had Prime immobile, mesmerized by the blinking light. "Faceless mechs without anyone of true caliber to relate to."

"Let me go," Prime ordered. He had to remind himself who this was.

"Go yourself," he replied, only hand carefully stroking the facemask of his captive. "Or remain here and discover the ways I am willing to relinquish the information you seek."

He made him do it, begged him to do it, forced him to do it; Prime didn't know. The whole experience was clouded in his processor. All he knew was that every time his body truly touched Shockwave's each question he asked had an answer. ANYTHING Prime sought he found, with a pleasant side effect. When it was over, Shockwave told him the last piece of information he'd been dreading/anticipating: they would meet again. Shockwave would expect his return.

"Beware of Megatron's wrath," was his parting shot. "He was saving me for a special occasion."

Worse was when he returned to the space bridge and discovered that Shockwave, either in a moment of rebellion or passion, refused to execute the second part of the plan, allowing Prime's escape with both The Matrix and the activated cube. "We shall meet again!" the Decepticon called, reminiscent of their last interaction, something that still thrilled Prime.

None of it made sense. He would _never_ do that to anyone he cared for; but he had. The fact that it was the BEST he'd ever had was even more disturbing. Perceptor had been mediocre and boring, a.k.a. "nice." Nice no longer merited consideration.

Prime could not admit the truth, but he could not lie by omission. He'd had to terminate his relationship with Perceptor. The scientist had not taken it well, thus his second, third, and fourth visits to demand better elucidation than 'it's not you, it's me.'

"Someone awakened something in me I'd forgotten I had."

"The Matrix?" his voice quavered hopefully. He'd been told.

"No." The brown, heart-shaped rock held Prime's attention. Grimlock had found a beautiful stone with a vein of quartz running through the middle of it, giving it darker brown lines that made it appear broken. The quartz was harder than the rock that surrounded it, making the breaks actually the strongest part. "Someone I've known a long time. Someone who knows me far better than he should."

The microscope wiped the emotion from his face. "Ultra Magnus. I should have guessed. I had heard rumors that he was still alive, but now you have confirmed it. You must excuse me for intruding. Good night, Prime."

* * *

It had become a habit to hide in here. Jazz stormed in and opened fire without saying anything to Ironhide, which was fine with him. All the Vanette wanted to do was decimate the target, pretending it was Megatron. 

"I'm still aiming too high," the saboteur finally complained, checking his stats.

"After all this time? I thought you'd be better then Bluestreak by now."

"No kidding. I finally talked to Prowl."

Ironhide didn't want to know, but acknowledged it politely. Jazz didn't elucidate, and Ironhide didn't reveal how much he knew, thanks to the thin walls.

"He's finally admitted we have a problem." Jazz shrugged. "Figured he could talk to Smokescreen about it. If anybody can help him out, it's Smokey."

Ironhide nodded. "Another Datsun." Smokescreen would find out what was wrong with Prowl and Jazz, or at least have a viable solution.

"Why are you here, denied again?"

Ironhide put down his gun and faced the Porsche. "He kissed me."

The two had expressed many thoughts using their faces; this particular statement was no exception. Comprehension dawned and Jazz laughed. And laughed. He continued to laugh even as Ironhide scowled. "Sorry, man. I should've told you but I didn't want to let you down, in case this one was good. You know, I had high hopes for you two. I was hoping it was just Prowl who was lousy. And Smokescreen. And Silverstreak. And Dustbunny. And Predator. And-OW!" He had to dodge Ironhide's light punch. He was able to calm down a few moments later. "I'm sorry it happened to you, man, but you two were doomed from the start."

"Thanks for letting me make a fool of myself," he snorted, knowing that Jazz didn't roll that way. It was just fun to tease him.

Mirage walked in, sulking. "You didn't invite me _again_," he growled accusingly.

"We thought you'd be busy," Jazz replied, puzzled. "Wooing Perceptor not taking up too much time?"

Apparently Perceptor only cared about work. He'd vowed to never interact with another Autobot again. Jazz mumbled something about that being a growing problem but refused to repeat himself, turning back to shooting, smiling ruefully to himself. Prowl was right, he needed to quit being so mean - at least out loud. Then again, his lack of basic interaction would turn Bumblebee into Starscream.

Mirage wondered aloud if there were any justice left in the world if their only medium for happiness was a warm gun.

"Don't know. Don't care. Jazz?"

"We could always tag team Raji, just to shut him up," he replied.

Mirage was good and ready to take them up on that offer. They returned to their guns.

"This shooting stuff's boring," Ironhide eventually decided, putting his blaster away. "I'm ready for some real action. C'mon, Blue's got a Playstation."

Jazz was game, but Mirage decided to go to bed, since he had patrol early tomorrow. They walked out and turned off the light.

"See you next time," they called.


	20. Watch the Birdie

Did they really think Megatron was that stupid?

Skywarp and Thundercracker had radioed in a panic: they were under attack and needed backup. For some reason the space bridge had sent an unidentified mech (later confirmed as Optimus Prime) to Cybertron, AGAIN, one that both guards declared they had been unable to stop. This was the fifth incident in a VERY short span of time. Should it be for the reason Megatron suspected, then there would be a great deal of punishment to dole out before the end of this planetary rotation. It would depend on their spy's report.

It was a call instituted so often Megatron could practically hear it before Soundwave elicited any noise from his masked face. "Laserbeak, return!" The tape flew in and folded himself into his master's safe berth to unwind his sordid tale of surveillance.

"Let us hear what Laserbeak has discovered concerning the Autobots' activity," Megatron announced superfluously to Starscream as the first dialogue began. It was nothing special, just two Autobots in target practice. (The irony of their spy hiding in the one room guaranteed to have ammunition was lost on Laserbeak but Megatron enjoyed it immensely.)

* * *

Crackle. 

(Noises of shots going off. Door opens.)

"Ah see yer back in here agin." (**That must be either Ironhide or Inferno. Megatron still had difficulty discerning Autobot voices. The only truly recognizable personalities were Optimus Prime, Jazz, Grimlock, and that irritating mech Bumblebee. And Slag.)**

"I've given up. If he wants to spend his time hiding in his lab and obsessing over Optimus Prime then so be it."

(More firing sounds.) "Mirage, buddy, I'm with ya on that. Yeh know, in the old days I could get a bump buddy and that was that. Use 'em, toss 'em out, we didn't care. There was always another one ready to be next in line. Now we have to play games. Fraggin' kids."

The one known as Mirage gave a patrician snort. "Bump buddy. I haven't heard that phrase used in vorns."

(A short pause.) "Didya ever have one?"

(Sigh.) "A long time ago. Like you said, there was a far greater variety back then."

"I wouldn't mind one right about now. Leakin' lubricant, Ah'm outta ammo agin. I'll be back."

"Ironhide?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that day you and Jazz talked about tag teaming me and I said you could do it?"

(**These Autobots were worse than Starscream! When did they have time to interact with the humans if they were too busy going after each other?)**

"That was a joke, Mirage."

(Uneasy laugh.) "I knew that!" (Another uneasy laugh.) "I just thought…since you brought it up…" (Long pause.) "It wouldn't be a deep connection because we don't have anything in common."

(Clank!)

"Just one thing, buddy."

(Long silence. Sounds of metal on metal. Undistinguishable vocal noises, mostly moans and sighs.)

"I think we can work out a suitable arrangement."

"Not here we ain't. Red Alert has cameras everywhere. Yer place or mine?"

"I like yours better."

"Okay. Meet me there in fahve earth minutes.(Steps toward door.) "Wait, Ah need to clean up, so knock first."

"You won't see me when you open the door, anyway."

"Good idea."

(Door closes.)

* * *

Did he have any more? No, Laserbeak had to wait for Mirage to depart from that room so that he could keep a good distance. He tried to follow, but the blue car had turned invisible and was not locatable. He lingered in the hallway and caught a few bits and snatches of conversation and noise-mostly from other rooms around the spy's post-until one mech walked into his room and a row began between him and what must have been Jazz.

* * *

"What are you doing?" 

"If you don't know what this is you're not as smart as you let on, honey."

"We have Cloudstreaker on a strict watering schedule, Jazz." (**He was right!**) "Too much water and she drowns. We agreed to adhere to this."

"She looked thirsty. So sue me."

(Sigh.) "Jazz, we _agreed_ to a schedule. You're ignoring it. This is exactly what Smokescreen said we needed, more commitment to the obligations we've both made as a couple. This is how we honor our spark bonding and avoid the proverbial power struggle stalemate."

"It's just a lousy half a liter of water. It's not like I sold all your stuff on ebay. And if you ever start quotin' Smokey's therapy mumbo-jumbo on me again I _will_."

"You were the one who wanted me to go. I'm going, and trying to employ what we've talked about, and your response is less than encouraging."

"I thought he'd teach you to talk some sense." (Very long pause.) "Why did you come in here, anyway?"

"Besides the obvious fact that this is my room? I just had a long talk with Blaster."

"That's nice."

"He asked me why you've been avoiding him as of late."

(Silence.)

(Warning tone.) "Jazz." (Silence.)

"No reason. He's just been kind of crazy lately, that's all. What did you talk about?"

(Snorts.) "You assume that any interaction connotes that I have a morbid curiosity for details regarding a Certain Event. I do not."

(Long silence.) "It was a mistake."

"It was. It was also forgiven and forgotten, as promised. I do not bear a grudge for you doing something so reckless in a moment of weak will. The only one who holds it over your head is you. It has been jettisoned from my database."

"Really? 'Cause it wasn't that long ago."

"Really."

"Prowlie-bot!"

"There is no need for this kind of expression. As I previously attempted to inform you, Blaster has a coded communication he assured me you would understand: The Bear Went Over the Mountain."

"Ah Primus, he _would_ do that _NOW_!" (Sounds of footsteps. Door opens. More footsteps.) "Blaster, this is Jazz! Next time, _radio me_, don't tell Prowl! Gimme some future Bear coordinates."

"You already know 'em, dude."

"Slag! Ironhide! (Sounds of door being knocked.) "Are you in there? We gotta move out!"

(Door opens) "Jazz, wait! Did he-"

"Shh!"

"You are not giving me enough credit. I was not about to announce it in the hallway."

(Door opens) "What? Ah'm busy."

"Sorry, buddy. Papa Smurf's gone Gargamel hunting. C'mon! Maybe we can stop him!"

* * *

"Where do they get this _ridiculous_ code?" Starscream sneered. "I've heard better subterfuge from 'The Dukes of Hazzard.'" 

Megatron was unwilling to admit that it confounded HIM. He knew Prime was doing something, and it involved the space bridge, but this was knowledge _ex post facto_. Instead he told Starscream to shut up. Skywarp and Thundercracker's activities –which reflected on the Air Commander-had not been revealed yet.

* * *

(Abrupt stop and start in another location, obviously outdoors due to the wind noise.) 

"You're crazy."

"And you like me for it."

"It's just because you have a hot body."

"I thought it was my great kissing."

"Your kissing's still as weak as ever, but I'll overlook it."

"You-"

(Crashing noises, fighting noises, then the unmistakable sound of two Decepticons interacting.)

(**Megatron glared at Starscream, who gave a 'who me?' expression and backed away from the throne.**

"**I can't control what they do when I'm not around!" he protested, waving his arms erratically.**

"**This is why you'll never be above any rank I have given you. If you won't administer punishment, then I will."**)

"Oh…yeah. Oh."

(Sound of truck engine in the background. Transforming noise is barely heard above loud grunts and Skywarp calling out Thundercracker's name ecstatically. Other noises superimposed by noises made by the Decepticons.)

(Loud exhalation.) "You loser. How do you do that to me?"

"It's a talent."

"Don't ever lose that talent!" (More noises.) "What was-"

(Both) "SLAG!"

(Sounds of space bridge opening up, shooting someone upwards, and closing. Dust creates a great deal of noise and feedback.)

"What are we gonna do, T? We're SCRAP!"

**(Megatron continued to glower at Starscream, who noticed that Soundwave had a rather malicious gleam in his visor. Megatron wouldn't let Soundwave beat him to scrap again, would he?)**

"Calm down. There's some ground-pounders right now. If we say we got held up by these guys, then who's gonna know?"

"Whoever's spying on us!"

"Nobody's spying on us. Let's get these guys and radio in. Come in Shockwave!"

"_I'm going to nail you right here so that every time you press a button on this keyboard you remember me doing THIS to you!"_

"_AH!"_

"Shockwave!"

"Ah! I am busy! I will report once I've ridden myself of this-ah-pest."

"Soundwave! Thundercracker reporting! We're under attack by Autobots and one got through to the space bridge! Shockwave is under attack! Repeat, Shockwave is under attack!"

* * *

Backup had arrived in time for two very disjointed Decepticons to tell them the obvious: they'd been under attack, hadn't seen who made it to Cybertron, and that communications with Shockwave were impossible, until Megatron did it himself. (Amazing how quickly he got results when he threatened to go over there and beat Shockwave into sheet metal.) 

The purple mech's responses were less than satisfactory.

"Optimus Prime WALKED right past you?"

"He will return." Shockwave sounded…excited.

"Explain your source of intelligence."

He could think fast, this mech. "He made a speech."

Prime was known for doing that. "Make sure he does not get past you AGAIN," Megatron replied. "Or you will suffer the consequences."

Sure enough, a mere ninety astro-minutes later the Autobot leader had managed to fight his way back to the space bridge and return to earth, although Shockwave looked as though he had fought valiantly. He was full of bumps and scrapes and his light was broken.

"You failed."

Shockwave had the grace to look down, allowing his only hand to lovingly trace the keyboard as he awaited his punishment.

"You will come down here and give me a FULL report and I will decide your fate myself."

"Yes, mighty Megatron."

"Soundwave! Radio the rest of the Decepticons for a meeting." Out of a hidden area he pulled out a potent cube he'd been saving for a special occasion. "Use this to revitalize Ratbat. I have a mission for him."

* * *

Wildrider was waiting when Megatron finally entered his large chambers. Of course, where else would the Stunticon go? He was in an energon cage. Wildrider had informed Megatron of his knowledge regarding a certain Dinobot; the logical response was to put him somewhere he'd be unable to communicate with any other Decepticon. He'd begged and pleaded for release, swearing he'd submit to a database cleaning, but there was the danger of Soundwave inadvertently discovering Wildrider's information. No, he had to stay in a cage in Megatron's room, which meant that Megatron's nocturnal contact with other Decepticons had to stop, or else the point of hiding him in here would be moot. (Megatron had stopped demanding his underlings' attentions and _look_ what happened!) After the initial hysterical horrified reaction of a claustrophobic mech placed in a small prison, Wildrider had turned most of his processor off as a coping mechanism and only responded to Megatron's vocalizer commanding him to awaken. 

"Arise!"

His optics registered dull helplessness. "Hail Megatron."

There was not much time to brief him. The Decepticon leader swung open the cage door and informed Wildrider of his NEW duties.

His red face twisted into shock. "Thank you, mighty one!" he cried, falling to his knees.

"Thank me later." He wasted so much time disciplining his troops…why couldn't he find anyone loyal enough to obey his commands the first time? His wrath doubled at this thought and he ordered Wildrider to follow him to the throne room.

* * *

Soundwave had the culprits lined up in a row in front of Megatron's throne, surrounded by the rest of the army (minus the rest of the banished Stunticons). The silver mech sat down, demanding his darker gray remora settle nearby. 

"Shockwave! Report!"

The large purple ray gun stepped forward and gave a precise description of Optimus Prime coming out of nowhere and overpowering him (his vocalizer wavered almost imperceptibly, but Megatron heard it). The Autobot leader made a speech about how he would deliver the energon cubes in his trailer to needy Autobots and Shockwave couldn't stop him. Upon his return, Prime again had Shockwave under him, begging for mercy and getting none.

"Yet he allowed you to function."

Shockwave hung his head in a show of humbled shame. "He has a weakness for letting me live."

The throne's armrests began to curve under the furious pressure of Megatron's hands. The entire account was plausible. Detailed. A _lie_. "Skywarp! Thundercracker! Explain how Prime was able to overpower BOTH of you."

Thundercracker and Skywarp did not have the luxury of having minimal facial features to hide behind. Nor could they make up stories as convincingly when they knew they were in trouble.

"He's a strong mech. Remember that time he said if he had to fight less than four Decepticons or he got bored? He wasn't lying."

"But YOU are! Soundwave! Replay Laserbeak's testimony."

Both Seekers tried to keep their composure, even through the Constructicons' snickering and Starscream's shrieks of wrath and the Coneheads' dirty jokes, but there was nowhere to run from Megatron's rage. Thundercracker opened his mouth to say something and keeled over from Megatron's shot.

Skywarp let out a shriek. Stricken, the Seeker kneeled before his beloved Thundercracker as circuits fizzled and smoke poured out of him and he screamed in agony. He hadn't been knocked offline by the shot.

Their leader spoke, ignoring the cries coming from below. "My fellow Decepticons: you have forgotten the price of treachery and failure. I KNOW what you do and I WILL punish your disobedience. Skywarp!"

He was trying to shush his trinemate, to no avail.

"You will repair him. _Without_ assistance," he added, before the black mech could turn to Starscream. "If you do not, you will have to guard the space bridge alone." A few were smart and laughed. "Dismissed."

Skywarp heaved Thundercracker over his shoulders (who elicited a number of moans of pain while this was accomplished) and dragged him out, leaving a trail of fluid behind him. Megatron turned to Shockwave.

"You are to be detained here until you decide to tell me the truth. Wildrider, you will take his place-temporarily." Wildrider nodded, glee creeping into his red face. "Ratbat has your instructions. He will monitor you _closely_. Scrapper will escort you to the space bridge." Megatron suspected that Prime's 'visits' would cease to be an issue when he saw Wildrider, who would be eager to demonstrate his trustworthiness after being held prisoner for so long. "Dirge, Thrust, Hook, Ramjet: take our new guest to my chambers. It's time to prove yourself, Shockwave."

If there was so much as a trace of blue and red paint on that mech there would be slag to pay. Shockwave knew that. The cage would be a tough fit. Hook would figure out how to place the large mech inside, and the other three would do well to keep Shockwave from rebelling. Megatron dismissed the rest of the troops and turned to Soundwave, and Starscream.

"You will not assist him, Starscream."

"Who'd want to? The mess he's going to make out of Thundercracker will be a joke! I hope he learned his lesson. I _told_ you that I can't control what they do when I'm not around."

"I suspect that dominance will not be an immediate issue," Megatron retorted wryly, leaning on one hand and thinking with some trepidation of his own mess he'd have to deal with when he finally confronted Shockwave. He didn't want to have to scrap such an efficient mech, but if he didn't there would be more eruptions of this type of Thundercracker/Skywarp problem.

"The only immediate issue that concerns me is how Ironhide and Mirage are doing," the jet declared, a gleam in his optics.

Megatron sighed. He needed to start planning more energon collecting schemes if the soap opera that was the other army entertained them more. He'd have a brainstorming session with himself once Shockwave returned to Cybertron. "So be it." He gave Soundwave a signal.

"Buzzsaw, return!"


	21. Know Thyself

I entered this in a "WTF" pairing contest. It lost.

* * *

Being over-energized was a bad idea. No exceptions. Ever. Ultra Magnus deposited Hot Rod onto the young mech's recharge plate with absolutely no pity and a warning that if he CONSIDERED touching that part of his commanding officer's anatomy again he'd have trouble transforming without his HEAD. Then he left.

"Ugh…" if he weren't so cratered Hot Rod would care, but he didn't. It wasn't like he'd been rude or anything; they'd just been playing in that silly way Autobots goof around, and Hot Rod had drunkenly decided there would be no harm in reaching for his commanding officer. He had wondered if Ultra Magnus liked him at all, but apparently not. That wasn't fair. The carrier could've been nicer than _that_.

The door slid open again and somebody marched in. It didn't look like Ultra Magnus, although he walked like him. He was familiar with the layout, Hot Rod guessed, or he would have tripped over the blaster left in the middle of the room, just outside of the outline the hallway light cast. Primitive security, but it worked the time Springer tried to sneak in and enact a practical joke.

Bright optics. Very tall. Large, massive. Imposing. Worthy of tri-syllabic-sentence description. The mech stared at him for less than a second and attacked.

So this was what being kissed felt like. Aha. Springer used to brag that it was like a nice warm cube of high-grade, but he was so far off Hot Rod couldn't wait to go brag to him about how much better it really was.

"Hey! Where are you going?" the other mech demanded as Hot Rod slid off of his plate.

"Uh…" He wasn't sure.

"You can tell Springer later."

That was weird. "How did you-"

"Listen, I KNOW you, okay? Just hold still and let me…slag, you have a nice body! Do me a favor and lay off the heavy-duty combat training. Kup doesn't play nice sometimes."

"Who _are_ you?" Hot Rod demanded as the mech's hands stared roving around his chestplate and his lips caressed that vulnerable part of his neck. Everywhere he touched was instantly warmed.

He heard his visitor chuckle. "A couple of vorns from now your Prime's gonna accidentally find a warp gate and come back here and give you a couple of good ideas."

This was too much for a clouded processor. "So you're Optimus Prime?" he asked dizzily. This mech had some talent if he could figure out where Hot Rod liked to be touched that quickly. He moved like he knew who he was doing on a very intimate level.

"Close enough," the Prime replied.


	22. Hounded

Charlene had to go to work early today. A new supply came in during the night manager's sudden leave of absence and she hadn't coordinated the work schedule in the computer-actually, she had claimed she _had_, but the computer crashed and erased everything. The day shift, to their dismay, had to be called in early for something they'd never done before.

"Why do you have to do inventory, too?" Skids whined.

Charlene was doing her makeup, since she didn't have to drive. The circles under her mobile, moist optics were dark and required a great deal of paint to cover them up. Skids directed the air conditioning towards her hair; she hadn't bothered to dry it, again.

"Because we have to get the Fourth of July stuff out to make room for the fall stuff, and the manager's on short-term disability. She can't go to Ratchet to get her back fixed, so she gets time off. Instead we get to do it for her."

"I'm turning," he warned. Skids had learned to give her notice of sudden movements when Charlene applied wax to her eyelashes. The 'mascara' wand had poked her in the optic once when he braked suddenly and she howled at him for a week after that.

"I get overtime for doing it, and I need the cash, so it's no big deal." Charlene re-directed the vents toward her hair and began removing the large rollers. "I forgot my hairbrush again. Dammit!"

Now would _not_ be a good time to tell her. Skids didn't have a lot of options, though. "Speaking of Ratchet-"

"When? Dammit, I forgot my hairspray too! I HATE getting up this early!" she huffed.

"Just now. What I meant to say was: I need to go for a maintenance check."

"Sure, whatever. I get off at four. Can you drop me off at the back door? The front door's locked at this hour." Skids drove to the back and saluted Gary, her manager, by blinking his headlights. "Thanks, Skids. Love you! See you later!"

He headed for the highway immediately. Three human years were not that long to be with someone, but he definitely wondered about her. She said she loved him. She tried to explain it, but Skids tried to explain to her that she was another species with strange ideas of what emotions were.

"You love a dog different than a human," he'd pointed out.

"I know people who love their dogs MORE than humans," she replied.

He knew, however, that human love required a means of expression, and performing that medium on your dog was considered taboo, even deviant. He asked her if that were the love she meant.

"No!" she protested violently. "Like my friends. My parents. That kind of love."

That made no sense. Every mean of human artistic expression emphasized finding a partner with whom to perform these acts of affection. Charlene treated him as this type of individual, joking to Chuck about her 'husband' and spending every waking hour with her car. She'd even discussed knocking down the wall of the living room so that the garage would be in conjunction, although extreme temperatures and the cost were deferring.

He felt strongly for her, as well, but…she was not an Autobot. He needed mechanical companionship, if only for half a day. He felt terrible about lying to her, but some things were best kept hidden under a mountain of denial.

* * *

Desert dust blew across the highway with a tan smear that scraped his tires and made everything gritty. Internal radio communication was the only issue on Skids' mind. The humans demanded that they only have certain frequencies, limiting the channels of communication to a maddening _two_. The Autobots had been more than accommodating to the humans on so many issues, yet the unreasonable beasts continued to thrust inconveniences onto them. He flipped through internal radio frequencies to find an open channel, but his fellow mechs were particularly talkative today. 

"_Trailbreaker, come in Trailbreaker! State location and mission!"_

_Chuckle. "I'm right behind you, Prime."_

That happened more often than not. Trailbreaker was never where he should be, but somehow it worked to his advantage. Immediately Ironhide was on the radio, demanding an update from Bumblebee.

"_No sign of Decepticons. Laserbeak disappeared a few miles back when I had to go through a tunnel."_

"_Watch yer position. Where's Cliffjumper?"_

"_Next to me."_

Skids flipped to the other channel to catch the tail end of an Aerialbot argument involving whether or not the coordinates Slingshot had told them where he'd found an old airport graveyard were correct. It ended with name-calling and Prowl coming on to tell them to solve the issue later, and that the coordinates _were_ incorrect. More name-calling. Prowl hushed them and the radio was silent for less than a second.

"_Jazz, come in!"_ The authoritative voice of the Datsun called with a particular note of frustration.

"_Whaddaya want?"_ Jazz was slurring his words over the boisterous yelling of celebrators around him. _"Speakup, I can' hear ya!"_

Prowl kept his voice calm. "_What is your position?"_

"_I'm off to the left of the racetrack, 'cause I was losing and decided to pull over and answer one o' your many many-"_

"_You are in breach of your promise."_

Jazz hadn't stopped talking. _"-many many pages. Which one?"_

"_We are supposed to spend one evening an earth week together."_ He sounded patient but the displeasure was not hidden. _"After a multitude of lapses in our commitments we agreed to honor this particular pact today."_

Laughter erupted, and cheers. Mirage had won. "_I'd do it if we were doin' something to make it worth showing up."_

Prowl did not reply.

"_I gotta go."_

"_Jazz-"_

"_Don't gimme that slag about honoring my commitments."_

"_We had an _agreement._"_

"_If you're so fraggin' lonely go talk to Smokey. That's what he's there for. I'm busy. Jazz out."_

The radio lines were clear again. For a moment.

"_Ironhide, come in!"_

"_Did you win?"_ He had a slow drawl but he wasn't that difficult to understand. Skids wondered why some Autobots had trouble understanding him.

"_Affirmative. I feel like celebrating."_

Ironhide snickered. _"What are you doin' later?"_

"_You."_

From the background Skids could hear Jazz yelling at Mirage. "I wanna rematch!"

"_He's so over-energized I'll be done in no time."_

"_Can't wait."_

Skids flipped and found the other channel clear. It was about time! "_Autobot Skids calling in to give a status report. I'm on Interstate 80, heading southwest. ETA: 1000 hours."_

No reply. Nothing. No confirmation from Ratchet, Prowl, Ironhide, or Prime. Not that Skids expected it. Right now his intended recipient was calculating the blue mech's location and suiting up. He could picture it: gun, energon, war paint (no, no war paint). The long-delayed excitement began creeping up and he had to regulate his speed to keep from exceeding the speed limit and getting pulled over, which would have completely blown his cover. Soon he would be experiencing the excitement of being attacked by one particularly enthusiastic tracker. His daydreaming caused him to weave in and out of the lanes.

* * *

Ravage crouched close to the ground, waiting. Those stupid Autobots had exactly TWO radio stations. How did they NOT assume Soundwave would intercept them? He and his tapes had a good laugh over that; they'd spent half of one night decoding Blaster's oversimplified encryptions and the other half drinking energon and making fun of him. 

When the adaptor for the solar power collector the Constructicons had attempted to utilize failed completely due to rust they sent him out to find a battery: anything energy-producing and mobile would do. Finding a long-lost enemy had been serendipitous. Skids, who had foiled him once before, would fall this time. Already the Decepticon could tell that his target was not paying attention to his surroundings. Hook would be pleased.

He prepped for the jump and attacked.

* * *

Sun, sand, and blistering wind drifted gently around the defunct solar power collector and exfoliated it on a nuclear level as the Constructicons waited. Hook glanced at Soundwave from time to time, but didn't say much. None of the tapes had called back in with a revealed energy source. The other members of his gestalt sat, stood, complained, etc, until Megatron and his Seekers flew in. Thundercracker crashed into the sand nose-cone first. 

"What happened?" Starscream barked, his usual cheerful self.

The blue Decepticon was somehow in robot mode, looking as though he had no idea how he got that way. "No…landing gear."

Skywarp helped him up. "You don't need landing gear! Just transform."

"Oh…yeah." He faltered, unable to stand properly. "How do I-"

"Soundwave, report!" Megatron interrupted.

As Soundwave brought the others to the present, Hook sauntered over to Skywarp, who was anxiously trying to inspect the interior of his trinemate.

"How did repairs go?" he asked sweetly.

"Frag you," Skywarp snarled. "Hold still, T, let me readjust the transforming cog." The sand blowing around them made everything difficult.

Thundercracker squirmed anyway. He'd been the victim of not only Megatron's wrath but a lousy repair job. Thundercracker was seriously hampered and required assistance, and Hook could smell a rich payoff if he played his cards right. Skywarp had a great deal of goodies stockpiled thanks to his great gambling abilities.

"I could fix him for you. Megatron didn't say anything about someone doing cleanup repairs once you were done with him." The leader had ordered Skywarp to repair him on his own.

The Seekers turned to get a better look. "How much?" Skywarp snapped, trying not to let any more fluid spill on his hands.

Hook crossed his arms defiantly. "If you have to ask, you can't afford it."

Thundercracker gave a confused frown. "What…" He staggered backwards, grabbing at his friend's wings. "Do it!"

Skywarp blanched. "I don't want to give him that kind of power over us. He's going to overcharge me, I just know it."

Hook tried not to laugh. "Yeah, you're right. You just let him keep acting like this, until he falls apart because you're too cheap. Maybe Ramjet could be your new boyfriend. Too bad, Thundercracker. I'll go tell Starscream you want to break up the team."

Skywarp sent a warning shot across the Constructicon's shoulder. "How _much_?"

This was too easy. "Six energon cubes, a _full container_ of oil, and a cube of cybertonium."

"NO!" Skywarp howled, leading Thundercracker away.

"You slagging jerk," Thundercracker snarled, tripping over his own feet. "This is all your fault!"

The purple and black Decepticon regarded his lover stumbling with no sense of equilibrium and his face melted. "Fine. Half up front, quarter when you're done, last quarter after an earth month."

This was a standard Decepticon payment plan. Hook motioned for his other Constructicons for a conference.

"We can get him done in an hour. Where's the first installment?"

Subspace was a wonderful invention.

* * *

Ramjet and Thrust brought him back while Ravage flew behind them, pleased with himself. Skids had been so preoccupied he hadn't realized he'd been pounced until he was lying on his side, being torn up by powerfully resentful jaws. 

The cassette landed softly while his prey was thrown onto the ground without ceremony. Megatron barely glanced at him. He was immersed in a hasty conference with Starscream regarding whether or not this particular rustheap of a solar power collector would work.

"It's completely remade junk!" Starscream hissed.

"So are you." Megatron had shifted his attention to the newest arrival. "Yet we still keep you around."

"Your first mistake," the Seeker mouthed behind him.

"Autobot Skids!" he purred, delighted. "An excellent source of energy."

"I haven't seen this one before," Skywarp stated, puzzled. "Where did he come from?"

They watched him transform and fall onto his back, inviting a kick or two from the Decepticons around him. "He hides among the humans, the coward. Constructicons! Prepare the battery!"

Bonecrusher, Hauler, Scrapper, and Scavenger stepped forward to hook him up. They worked fast and silently, hoping Megatron wouldn't notice that a third of their team was missing-

"Hook! Mixmaster! What are you doing?"

"Five more minutes!" Hook called back, immersed in his work and ignoring everything around him.

* * *

Thundercracker was a MESS. It looked like Skywarp had thrown everything into his trinemate's chestplate and slammed the door. Was that DUCT TAPE holding the radar equipment together? Unbelievable! 

When behind the collector at this angle they avoided the wind and sand, which made everything go a lot smoother. They had one more complicated mechanism to reattach-the transforming cog-when their leader noticed their lack of participation. Hook tried to stall him the only way he knew: say something insulting that Starscream couldn't resist adding his own commentary to, which would distract Megatron enough to buy them at least fifteen minutes.

Once Starscream had picked himself off the ground, twenty minutes later, Megatron remembered what had started all of this.

"They're repairing Thundercracker," Dirge droned.

It was about time! Megatron wondered why it had taken Hook so long to move in on those two. His need for everything to be perfect reverberated to the rest of the army, including the physical shape of other Decepticons. Thundercracker had been a disaster with wings for almost a decacyle. That was too long. Megatron decided to blame Starscream for allowing Skywarp and Thundercracker to defy his orders. It assigned responsibility to someone who deserved a good beating and permitted Hook more time to complete his far-overdue repair job.

Thundercracker's optics flickered on from burgundy to cherry red. "Am I fixed yet?"

"Almost. You'd better thank Skywarp for being so nice and waiting 'til your main fuel line had a hole big enough for me to poke a finger into before he let me look at you. I had to change SIX belts because of that!" Hook turned to Mixmaster, who nodded shyly. "Mixmaster made you new ones. _He_ wouldn't let you go to slag."

"What?" Thundercracker replied, confused.

Hook leaned in as he twisted one of the last requisite bolts. "He likes you."

The Constructicon behind Hook giggled nervously.

"HE wouldn't let you rot like this. He'd treat you like the great warrior you are." He was cleaning up his mess, the last thing done before internal repairs took over.

"Don't I have to go out with all of you or something?" He'd heard rumors.

"We have to find you tolerable. That's about it." Thundercracker's chestplate shut softly. "Give it some thought." He was back with the other Decepticons, Mixmaster glancing behind him, and preparing to throw a switch before comprehension dawned on his patient.

Mixmaster?

Slowly, carefully, he stood up. Without rolling onto his side. That was a good sign. One foot in front of the other. He still felt a little shocked at the necessary revamping, tender even, but everything seemed to work. Skywarp didn't acknowledge him.

* * *

Skids came to upright, with his arms out as he rested against a T-shaped contraption. The standard issue Decepticon torture rack. This one had many plugs as wires, which meant that Skids was in for an unpleasant afternoon. An ugly array of lime green and grape purple met his sight first. The next feeling he had was one of excruciating agony as something surged out of him. 

"We're at half power!" Scavenger called. "Can we get anymore out of him?"

Bonecrusher checked. "Not much."

"I _told_ you that adapter wouldn't work!" Mixmaster called. Thundercracker tilted his head slightly sideways, watching the mech as he considered the substance of his thoughts. The Constructicon realized he was being observed. "I I I I I I I-did!" He moved over to a corner of the energy collector where he wouldn't be within sight.

It wasn't long before he got the feeling that he was being watched. He looked up to see a large blue mech staring openly, arms folded shut.

"H-hi," Mixmaster greeted, busying himself at the controls to avoid any real conversation.

Thundercracker was still confused. Mixmaster? Since when? Why? There wasn't much they had in common. When he thought of that particular Constructicon the word 'sloppy' came to mind: his speech, mannerisms, attitude, and workstation were all an unsophisticated mess. Nothing focused in him. He wavered and splashed and lurched, so graceless that to compare him to Skywarp was to juxtapose a comet to an asteroid. He had such a convoluted way of communicating…

"What would you give me that he couldn't?" Thundercracker demanded.

"Uh-I d-don't know."

That was less than helpful. "You couldn't tell me yourself that you liked me, you've got five pieces of baggage, you're a mess, you're not a jet, you've got a nasty paint job, you're a ground-pounder, and you're NUTS."

"I'm ugly and I'm crazy," Mixmaster replied calmly. "I sh-should have known you wo-wouldn't just say 'no,' like anybody else."

Skywarp came up and sneaked a kiss on the cheek. "I paid the other quarter. Hook's got the right name, the grabby little slagheap. It'll take me forever to get all that energon back. The Cybertonium is WORSE."

Mixmaster pulled a lever, if only to hear their Autobot battery scream on the other side of the collector as another surge of volts circulated through him. It was not enough power. "We need another Autobot!" he called.

"Ramjet! Dirge! Thrust! Skywarp! Thundercracker! Go find another Autobot! Check their two radio frequencies and see who is nearby."

Skywarp pulled himself away from his lover to get a better takeoff spot; Thundercracker lingered.

Mixmaster sighed. He'd been told 'no.' The word came out often enough that yet another brush-off would be cataloged away in the annals of experience. Still, he wanted to at least _try_ to express his emotions, albeit ineffectively.

"I like you," he stated simply. "I would never complain about how much you cost."

The large blue Decepticon regarded him, lost in thought for the briefest second before he turned away, taking off.

His transforming cog worked beautifully.

* * *

There _had_ to be a better way to cut back on needed power to kick-start the sluggish solar power collector. 

Starscream glanced at their schematics and laughed. "How can a machine reliant on the sun not collect enough power to supply itself _in the desert_?"

"You have to prime it first," Scrapper replied, trying to wrench the plans away before Megatron's second-in-command discovered something else he didn't like about them.

The unrelenting current that passed through him and drained his electrons had Skids delirious with pain. He tossed his head in every direction, searching for the unseen. "Prime? Where? Is that you, Optimus?"

"No," Megatron snorted, amused.

"I'm right behind him!" someone yelled, coming from out of nowhere. "Autobots! ATTACK!"

How could they have surprised them like this? There was nothing around them for MILES. Half his team was off trying to find more Autobots. (The morons he'd sent out to find Autobots missed _an entire army_ driving under their cockpits. It was so hard to find good help these days.) "Drive them back!" Megatron ordered, taking to the sky.

The Decepticons fired upon the Autobots, who had come to the conclusion that they were outnumbered, and retreated quickly. Megatron, confident, called for Soundwave, his tapes, Starscream, and the Constructicons to chase them down.

"Don't let them get away!" he cried.

* * *

There was too much pain and confusing loud noises for an Autobot to make out anything other than the sand that rushed around him. The red and blue mech stared at the brutally bright sun above him. Megatron might come back. Maybe the sun would cook him to a crisp. Maybe an angel would appear from out of nowhere.

* * *

He appeared from out of nowhere. At least, it seemed that way: one moment there was a cloud of dust, the next, a large green mech was coming up to him with his blaster in one hand and the other cradling his hologram projector. He said nothing. 

"You found me!" Skids exclaimed, delighted. Hound was covered in the drab dust of the sand around them, smelling of the tang of hot metal and Jeep upholstery, and when he leaned in to set Skids free it was an invitation to try to kiss that hot, dusty mouth-but he was stopped by a large energon cube feeding him what was necessary to revitalize him after being a battery. Skids felt it working almost immediately. His rescuer jerked his head in a certain direction.

"Westward," Hound grunted.

Skids nodded.

"You have twenty minutes."

The cords loosened, freeing him from the constriction but his chest still felt tight. Probably because of the excitement of realizing his hunter was not finished chasing down the quarry. Hound moved in and kissed him as hard as he could, pulling away just as sharply before frowning attractively.

"Roll for it."

You didn't have to tell HIM twice. Skids transformed, mid-run, and hurried away, trying not to let his tires squeal when he hit the road.

* * *

While they'd been chasing down the Autobots – who had, according to Megatron, arrived at their site and disappeared after being chased - Thundercracker silently endured the angry rants of Skywarp regarding his dwindled energon supply. Finally he'd had enough. 

"Does this mean I'm not worth it?" Thundercracker finally interjected.

"What!" Skywarp dipped below his blue friend. "You're always worth it!"

Thoughts of Mixmaster's words lingered. "You could've fooled me."

"T…you're worth a million times that. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to give it up."

Thundercracker guessed that he wouldn't get anything nicer than that and changed the subject as they landed down with Megatron in front of the inert rust hulk that was silently flaking off as the sandy wind blew on it. "Where'd the battery go?"

* * *

When one had to wear a bright red vest as part of her uniform, it was a good idea to take it off the minute her shift was over. Many a time Charlene had been waylaid by a stupid question on her way back to the break room to punch out. Now she waited by the front door, worried. Skids was fifteen minutes late. 

He pulled up at long last, a MESS. Dusty and slightly scratched. She didn't notice.

"You would NOT believe the day I've had," she groaned, relieved to be sitting down somewhere comfortable.

Skids chuckled. "What happened?" he asked.

"It started off when I got in and Beth was in a bitchy mood and it went downhill from there." She lit into her co-worker's behavior, talking mile after mile as Skids smiled to himself. Charlene made him feel like he was a part of another world, one less complicated and dangerous. One where there were no Decepticons trying to drain you for electricity, where no one wanted to kill you, where the nagging _need_ to get your jollies didn't include being hunted down like a wild turbo-fox. It was such as relief from his own crazy existence that it made him appreciate every moment he got to spend with a simple human who just liked talking to her car.

"How did your maintenance go?" she finally asked.

Images of a lusty green Jeep closing in on him when he tried to duck into some rock formations danced in his database, distracting Skids enough to make him almost miss a red light. He tried to focus.

"It went all right. I have to go back next month."

She nodded absently, already checking out which fast food place she wanted to have her dinner. "Pull into Arby's," she ordered. "I shouldn't, but it's been such a crazy day I think I deserve something bad for me that tastes good."

He could relate.


	23. In Fidelity

There's nothing quite like a quiet evening of shooting one's gun at a target to loosen the agitation felt after a long hard day of misery. That is, until the unusual interrupts.

"JAAAAAZZ!" Blaster bellowed his name so loud the Porsche dropped his gun in surprise. When in the shooting gallery one could not hear others approaching as shots were going off in that place. Jazz decided to ignore the falling weapon and return the greeting.

"BLAASTERRRRRRRRRRR!" He hurried over and they slapped each other on the shoulders.

"WHA-ZZZAAAAAAAAAP?!" they yelled, trying to outshake the other as greeting. Blaster won; he was stronger.

Mirage stared in perplexed annoyance. "Where on Cybertron did you come up with THAT greeting?"

"RAJI! WHA-ZZZAAAAAAAAP?!" the tape player demanded, coming over to give him high-five. Mirage panicked and disappeared, reappearing by the door.

Jazz decided to ease his worries. "Blaster didn't scramble his processor, Mirage. We got it from a beer commercial."

"You're _both_ scrambled," he retorted. "I'm going to go find Ironhide."

"Uh-huh," Blaster replied, chuckling as he turned back to the Porsche. "He won't like what he sees. Ironhide found a new toy to play with. Seen Ratchet lately? He's got a Texas Snake Bite on his neck."

Blaster and Jazz had so many code words that sometimes it was difficult to figure out what he was saying. Texas Snake…

The grimace was inevitable. "Ironhide and Ratchet? There's a scene I don't wanna witness."

"Whatever. Check it out: Wheeljack updated me." Jazz dramatically took a few steps back, ostensibly to avoid an explosion.

"Ha ha." Blaster pushed a button to reveal a CD player sliding out in a notch above the tape dispenser. "Wait, there's more!" He pointed to an odd-looking plug off to the left, near his shoulder. "USB port."

"Awwwww yeah!" Jazz high-fived his friend. "The guys are in the gym room."

"You go get them; I've got to set up." He stopped at the door. "You got a baby-sitter, right?"

"Ha ha," Jazz retorted. "Prowl's goin' to therapy." Unspoken was that Prowl declared yet again during the fight concerning the party was how Jazz's decadent lifestyle was _driving_ him to Smokescreen's office, and how it was NOT a crutch, as the Porsche had indignantly classified it.

"_Then why is it every five minutes you're whining 'I need to talk to Smokey, I need to talk to Smokey?' You sound like a mini-bot!" Jazz had snarled._

Blaster continued his teasing. "Better watch that one. He's had a crush on Prowl since Day One! You're losing your mojo!"

"I got more mojo in my exhaust system than that loser has in his whole body! Go set up!"

* * *

He could still hear the word in his processor: Phase. Smokescreen claimed Jazz was going through a phase. Prowl had sneered it at him, like a contemptuous grenade thrown at Jazz as the Porsche stormed out: Smokescreen must have been right. 

"Right about what?"

He shrugged, a motion he'd acquired from Jazz. "He informed me to disregard your current histrionics; that you were going through a phase."

It still offended him down to his core. As if their squabbles and problems could be easily pigeonholed into a dismissive label where the onus was all on HIM! Jazz didn't know whose fat throat he wanted to wrap his fingers around more, Prowl's or Smokescreen's. A _phase_. A _PHASE_.

_Get over it, rise above it, use it later. Your style is your weapon, not your emotions. Emotions betray your weaknesses. Do it with style or don't bother doing it._ His mentor's words had saved him so many times that Jazz wished he could have thanked him. Right now, he had to get a party going, if only to spite Prowl the Boring. The large group in the gym was a perfect congregation for his assembly as he waltzed in and called to them like the Pied Piper.

"Hey, Sunstreaker! Sideswipe! Party!"

They dropped their practice weapons and followed him. Their entourage copied.

After all, Jazz was cool.

* * *

He was waiting for them. His anticipatory grin was contagious. "THIS IS BLASTER BLASTIN' ATCHA IN-" the word "high" was lost when the speakers shorted out for a second-"FIDELITY. LET'S GET THIS PARTY STAAAAARTED!" He blasted "**I don't like the drugs but the drugs like me**," a favorite of Trailbreaker's. 

Sunstreaker hated music. He decided to hang out by the energon dispenser and look pretty. Within a few moments he was being ignored. He didn't know if he liked that or not. On one wheel, he didn't have to talk to anyone. On the other, he wasn't being admired.

Jazz ran over between songs for a beverage and told him he looked hot. Was that a new paint job? Sunstreaker nodded the affirmative.

"It's a great color for you." His visor gleamed in that way that made a mech feel special. Sunstreaker distrusted it.

"Where's the fun-aphobe?" the Lamborghini asked.

Jazz paused, smiling sardonically. "You heard that?"

"_Everybody_ heard that. You guys were screaming at each other." It had been a shock to hear placid Prowl and unflappable Jazz bellowing insults at each other at a level of wrathful acrimony reserved for Megatron and Starscream that blasted through the sound-proof doors. "Is that why he's seeing Smokescreen?"

"Yeah, something like that." Jazz turned away before Sunstreaker could ask more. Most of the Autobots hadn't even realized they were a couple until post-Ark crash, when Jazz had generously given up his assigned room to move in with Prowl. Fewer still knew the dynamics of their relationship until the day of the big fight. Sunstreaker himself was uncertain who was right, since Prowl was hated but often correct and Jazz was a great mech but usually on the wrong side of the discipline line. Prowl was more than likely wrong.

Autobots, for the most part, are not big musician fans; therefore Blaster was prone to turn off the noise for several hours while they all socialized. He, Jazz, Hound, and Tracks were in a clump, laughing and joking. Sideswipe joined them, giving Sunstreaker the secret signal to join them. The yellow mech never joined a group by himself. His brother greeted him enthusiastically.

"Check it out; Jazz can do that neck roll we saw the woman on that TV show do."

"Really?" He glanced over to see it. "Nice!" Jazz could rotate his head parallel to his shoulders using his neck. It looked amusing with the quirked optic ridge. "Doesn't that mean you're mad or something?"

"Yeah, I think so. It just looks funny." He did it again, surprising Cliffjumper and cracking up the others.

"What the frag was THAT?" the red mini-bot demanded.

"Nothing," Blaster replied, making a move to put on a song while the others went to drown themselves in their beverages. When they reconvened they were a somewhat larger group. Jazz nodded warmly to the Aerialbots.

"Cliffjumper said you guys had gone hexagonal nuts," Slingshot announced out of nowhere.

Tracks laughed contemptuously. "Cliffjumper should talk! He's a candidate for Jerry Springer!"

So of course this joke had to be explained, which led to including the Aerialbots in their standard game of "what would Autobot X look like as a human?"

Silverbolt thought Prime would look like that old man in the Quaker Oats commercial. Tracks disagreed. Fireflight declared that Jazz would be like Undercover Brother, except that he'd have a MUCH better-looking car.

"My ride would be off the chain," Jazz agreed, earning bewildered expressions from those who didn't understand slang. "What would Blaster look like?"

They didn't know. Dr. Dre?

Blaster was offended. He was more George Clinton than anybody else. Speaking of which…

He turned up "**Make My Funk the P Funk"** in order to get his friends on the dance floor. Jazz downed his fourth cube and moved out, feeling a little more elastic than normal.

* * *

More energon. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. There was a point when just enough of it would make the pain in his spark lesson to numb apathy. Blaster, after a long period of silence to allow the more sociable to make their rounds, had started playing music again. A recently arrived Red Alert began a fancy Latin dance with Inferno, who broke away from his partner to grab Jazz. 

"**Hope of deliverance from the darkness that surrounds us…"** Inferno sang along. "C'mon, help me out." It was easy to be grabbed by someone else and follow their lead. "Yer a smart mech to figure out how to salsa this quick,' he praised.

Jazz smiled that quirky beam that melted others' gyroscopes. "Prowl taught me how," he explained.

Inferno's smile fell. "I've seen him with Smokescreen. I'd watch that mech. He wants Prowl something BAD."

Jazz decided to be nice and just nod before changing partners.

* * *

If a human were to go to an Autobot party they might be confused by the selections of songs that were played. There was no theme to it, no rhyme or reason, just a conglomeration of noise. Blaster was playing the finale to Kalinakov's first symphony when Mirage bothered to make an entrance. He didn't say much to anyone, but as usual in parties, he gravitated to Jazz. 

The Porsche was beginning to feel the stronger surges of energon fluctuate throughout his body. He loved that giddy, happy feeling he got when it started flooding his system. Like he could fly away. Like he should be doing SOMEthing, ANYthing. Maybe a race.

"Hey, 'Raji! How's it shakin'?" He handed him a drink and waved an arm in the general direction of the mass of fêting Autobots. "Looks like we've got it going on!"

Mirage quaffed the beverage in less than three seconds. "I'm fine. I've never been better. I _hate_ my existence!"

So he HAD run into Ironhide. "C'mon, dance with me." Blaster was back to playing booty music. "**Shake Your Ass**" was not a song Mirage would normally subscribe to. He pulled away quickly.

"Leave me alone," he grumped. To finalize his hostility, Mirage turned his back on the Porsche and did not address him further.

"Whatever." There were more fascinating individuals at this shindig. Blaster, Tracks, and Slingshot had been watching Mirage and were prepared to make commentary.

"What did he say?" the tape player demanded, flipping through a few CDs and pulling one out.

"Nothin.' He ran into Ironhide." That produced reactions of supercilious amusement.

"He acts like a whiny bitch more and more every time he gets dumped!" Tracks snorted. He disliked the race car more than anyone. "If he were human, he'd be that singer that looks like Gears' dog. Who was that?" The Corvette seemed to be feeling the effects of the energon; he was beginning to slur slightly.

"Kenny G?" Blaster guessed, flipping through CDs again.

"No."

"Michael Bolton?" Jazz conjectured, trying to look around Blaster to see what he was doing.

"Yeah! That's who! Like him."

Jazz wasn't sure. Mirage acted more like a high-bred Dennis Leary: losing his temper, barely containing his emotions via bad acting, and desperately acting like he needed another cigarette. From the other side of the party area it was obvious the blue mech knew they were talking about him: he stared with thinly concealed resentment.

* * *

Because no one had requested it, Blaster ended another long period of no music with Elwood's "**Sundown,"** a favorite of both Tracks and Jazz in that they could do the newer hustle to it. Tracks did it by the book: four steps to the right, four steps to the left, four steps back, lean forward, lean back, kick while turning ninety degrees to the right. Jazz followed the direction but did so much improvisation it was impossible to synchronize with him, although many tried, including Silverbolt. 

"What was THAT?" he asked after Jazz did a specific little interlude that somehow ended with him being in the right place.

"That was The Meister, my own patented dance."

"Primus, don't get him started on that!" Tracks moaned, kicking and moving in another direction.

"It was big in Japan," Jazz protested in a mock-wounded voice. "It should have been big here, if it weren't for the Macarena."

Silverbolt brightened. "I know that dance! Hey Blaster-"

"NO." The tape player was the only one remotely close to the moves Jazz was performing. Jazz gave a code word and turned to face Blaster and they began to mirror each other.

"Why can't you guys just dance like normal robots?" Tracks complained.

"I think it looks cool," Silverbolt announced, giving Jazz a look that Tracks recognized.

"Let that one go, 'Bolt. He'll only break your spark," the Corvette muttered neat the plane's audios.

Jazz lost his balance and sent him and Blaster tumbling down, impeding anyone else from completing the song. Everyone laughed, except for the still-glaring Mirage.

Since it had been a few hours, Jazz went back over to talk to him. "**Getting Jiggy With It**" played in the background.

"You gonna hide over here all night?" he asked affably.

"Frag you," he snarled. "You knew Ironhide was with Ratchet, didn't you?"

The Porsche was SICK of The Contrary in this army going out of their way to make his existence difficult. "If you don't want to be here, then don't. Nobody asked you to make an appearance."

"If I'm not here, then you all think I'm in my room sulking, which is worse."

"We already know you're sulking! Go dance, man. It'll fool _somebody_."

He had no retort for that. He preferred glaring to no one in particular and ignoring the stubborn Jazz. The song finished up and the microphone came back on.

"Would the owner of a white Cadillac Escalade please report to the front? You are parked in a fire zone."

"Gimme that!" Blaster yanked the microphone away from Sideswipe and put him in a headlock. "Sorry, but he forgot his lines. What he meant to say was: we are no longer taking requests. I've got a list bigger than Omega Supreme and this party has to end at five for the next patrol shift." Sunstreaker launched himself onto the pair to free his brother and Tracks jumped in to stop him.

"This goes out to Mirage," Blaster purred, from underneath a pile of Autobots.

The beginning segued into a harder guitar. Jazz should have known. Mirage gave what looked like the fakest smile ever seen. "Cheerleader-beauty-pageant-winner-Barbara-Walters" fake. He appeared to be in desperate need of another drink, and the Porsche was more than happy to supply it. Mirage downed it without acknowledgement. "**I'm just a sucker with a lump in my throat like a chump-"**

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had given up the scuffle and were jumping up and down, screaming the words into each other's faces. "**What the hell? What you want me to say? I won't lie, that I can't deny-"**

The whole group erupted. Bluestreak crashed into the twins, the twins crashed back, Trailbreaker jumped in, Hound took a running start, and a giant mass of moshing Autobots screamed the chorus as loud as they could.

"**I did it all for the nooky!"**

He didn't join in until the line "**Stick it up your-"** with a half-hearted arm wave before putting down his empty energon cube and disappearing. Alarmed, Jazz plunged into the mosh pit, pulled out Hound, and spun him in the direction they last saw the blue spy.

"Where'd Mirage go?" he asked.

Hound pressed a few buttons and pointed slightly off to the right. "Mr. Invisibility's by those rocks," he said, barely heard over the song.

"**I appreciate it, but…leave me alone,"** Fred Durst moaned.

"Thanks!" Jazz called, moving quickly.

Mirage reappeared when his commanding officer called his name. "I know what you're going to say, and I don't care," he snapped, an optic balefully fastened to the colorful festivity a few hundred yards away. "You're going to tell me to rise above it and show them that they can't get to me. Show them my class and style, and laugh, and they'll forget it." If he were human he would have expelled a large cloud of cigarette smoke and tapped some ashes against the rock his fist landed on instead. "But I'm not like that."

Jazz nodded.

Mirage took that as tacit assent to continue. "I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone."

"Sure. I just thought that when you're done poutin'…you'd gimme that re-match we've been talking about for weeks."

Mirage snorted. "You have a one-track mind, Jazz." He would have been stubbing out the cigarette as he said that. Although Mirage would have considered this image as an insult.

The Porsche smiled predatorily. "I want my race."

Inevitably, there was contemptuous laughter to counter this challenge. "You don't stand a chance."

* * *

When he had entered this army Jazz had to endure a constant stream of jaws dropping whenever he entered the room; he couldn't understand why until Kup explained it. 

"They've never seen someone with so much charisma," he explained. "You're amazing."

That seemed odd to Jazz. He was just being his sweet self (or so he explained to Bumblebee). After awhile the frank admiration no longer held his favor and he preferred the company of Optimus Prime, Ironhide, and Prowl, the only mechs who did not seem to be attracted to his personality. Unfortunately, HE was taken in by one particularly static individual.

Prowl.

Don't ask him why; he couldn't tell you. It might have been the comforting way a deductive mind could conclude the indefinable, or that Prowl was an anchor in a hurricane in his methods, or that the weightiness of his plans – not to mention the effectiveness – made him a respectable cohort.

Jazz didn't know…it just happened. One day they were quietly going over battle plans and the thought 'I'm nuts about him!' popped into Jazz's mind and stayed, warming his spark and making him smile a little wider. Nothing changed. He still treated Prowl with the same respectful distance he always had, nothing dramatic or romantic about it. He never had pangs of jealousy when others paid him attention, or the urge to profess his affection, or anything like that. The thought stayed and the warm feeling in his spark was something to be happy about. No more, no less.

Then they lost almost all of their army in a Decepticon raid.

The minute the surviving Autobots were considered present accounted for, it was as though the world had ended and all Jazz had left were the few individuals before him. One of them was Prowl, who up until that time had been something nice. Now he was something necessary. The agonizing need to be near him infected the black and white mech like a virus, taking all of his strength and ingenuity to hide. Why did Prowl have to be so good looking…so safe and dependable in a precarious existence…Jazz needed a strong foundation, and this mech possessed it, and if only he could get close enough to pull him into the tractor beam of personality Jazz had for everyone else, then Prime's second-in-command would be his.

He'd been left alone to monitor patrol shifts when Prowl came in for his customary shift change. The unbearable pressure of trying not to watch him intensely, to absorb his routines like they were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen, raged within Jazz, who burrowed himself into his work, if only for a place to hide. Then Prowl gently touched his shoulder, causing him to look up from his forced activity.

"You like me." It was a statement, not a question.

Jazz considered the best way to respond to this. He decided Prowl was confronting the guardian in the room, and although Jazz didn't know if Prowl returned the sentiment, there was a way to leave the discussion open to interpretation. He stood up, visor to optic, smiled his most beguiling, and leaned on his hands on the back of the chair. He didn't know what a Hail Mary was, but when he learned about it later this situation came to mind.

"You like _me_."

The Datsun did not smile back. Instead his optics flickered with uncertainty. "Now what do we do?"

Jazz didn't respond _vocally_. He attacked Prowl with his mouth, shoving him against the nearest blank wall to have his way with him.

It hadn't been bad…there had been some moments of awkwardness, but that was to be expected the first time. All in all: satisfactory. Prowl ignored him for the rest of the time cycle. Jazz refused to be a one-shot deal and asked Prowl to stay the night. He balked, pretended Jazz was a part of the scenery around him, and showed up at the suggested time promptly.

That night was nothing but fireworks. As they recharged Jazz clung to his new friend and vowed to never let him go.

* * *

They were assembling in a row, ready to transform at a moment's notice. The twins were kicking each other and Tracks was inspecting his arms for flaws and Red Alert watched to point out anything he missed and Jazz leaned on a rock and looked so cool that the Aerialbots were exchanging knowing glances at the starry-opticed Silverbolt. 

Cliffjumper stood on said rock and fired in the air to get their attention. From out of nowhere Ratbat fired back. "How did HE get here?" the small red mech demanded as the others raced for cover and volleyed shots at the retreating Decepticon. He had not been seen until his attack.

Jazz jumped out from behind the rock and lead a moment of appreciation for Cliffjumper. "He would have had a clear shot at us if you hadn't taken him by surprise!" the Porsche praised, ignoring any and all protests that it had been sheer dumb luck. He leapt off of the rock and got into line as Cliffjumper announced the rules.

"No shoving – Sunstreaker; no shooting – _Sideswipe;_ no turning donuts on your victory lap – Tracks; and NO transforming and leapfrogging over the leader to the finish line – _**Jazz**_."

"Oh sure, no fun!" Sideswipe protested indignantly, as Sunstreaker crossed his arms and announced that he wasn't playing. Tracks was far too happy to see him go, goading him to hurry up and let Bluestreak or Bumblebee take his place.

Sunstreaker returned with a shove hard enough to knock Tracks onto his aft and give him a head start on transforming when Cliffjumper unexpectedly gave the signal to begin.

Jazz changed and pealed out, gunning his motor as hard as he could. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe often gained a lead in the first couple of miles that gave them a massive advantage – especially when they pushed, as the angry yellow Lamborghini behind him could attest.

Sunstreaker was hot on his trail and Sideswipe was about a foot behind him. Mirage breezed even closer and Tracks could be heard bringing out his wings BUT this enraged Red Alert who declared he was cheating and transformed to tackle him mid-takeoff. They were in Jazz's rearview mirror in no time, kicking up dust and swearing at each other.

There was no time to process this. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were putting their most annoying attack into effect: The Braid. They would pull in front of their target, first Sideswipe from the right, then Sunstreaker from the left-once his brother had passed. They could get so close and make such tight passes that anyone who bulked at it or hesitated or slowed down would lose momentum. If one managed to navigate through that first passing without hitting either of them or being hit, they were waiting –in a close position that left you no room to move unless you wanted to nick a bumper and lose control - for their victim to catch up so that they could do it again, in alternating order. Jazz couldn't keep cognitive track of them because the energon was coursing thorough his systems and slowing down his reaction time, thus he allowed three passes before Sideswipe proved his namesake and hit Jazz's left taillight on the fourth passing and knocked him into a spinout that sent him careening into a defenseless cactus bed. They didn't stop; continuing their deft _pas de deux_ towards the finish line and crossing together, passing once more before leaping mid air and transforming to thunderous applause…for Mirage, who'd swooped by all three of them in a cloud of dust as Jazz had been flung off the road and was waiting at the finish line for the others to arrive.

"I hope you didn't kill him," the blue mech announced dryly, sitting on the giant rock as though he were a Rodin sculpture.

* * *

The only thing worse than a sulking Mirage was a smug one. He'd accepted his praise and now lorded over the party, recounting the moment he outsmarted all three of his most disliked compatriots until even Jazz had enough. Downing yet another cube (he'd lost count) the Porsche decided to stop this smirking mech once and for all. 

"Hey Mirage, did you know Silverbolt did deliveries in your neck of Cybertron?"

The race car had no time to react as the plane was thrust into his line of vision. He kept his civility and asked "Did you, now?"

Silverbolt smiled nervously. "Yeah! Bladerunner was my boss."

"I knew him!"

Jazz took that moment to make his escape, but Blaster saw him. "Jazz the Pimp, hooking up 'bots who shouldn't," he declared.

The Porsche shrugged and grinned. "'Bolt's scared of heights, Mirage looks down on everything…it seemed like a weird enough combination to work."

"Right." The tape player's amusement halted. "Are you okay, Jazz? You're looking a little drunk."

"I'm fine." He felt fine. In fact, the buzz had worn off a little. He felt comfortably numb, to borrow a phrase. Prowl's stinging words and their last tiff seemed unimportant. "Play something. I wanna dance."

"Nobody's in the mood to dance." Sure enough, Autobots were drifting about, either leaving to go home or breaking off into groups to cause mischief elsewhere. The party was wrapping up, although the Porsche felt he could keep going for another week. "Take it easy." Blaster grabbed his hand and lead him towards a secluded area. "You were going to show me constellations."

* * *

Silverbolt had never met someone as interesting as Mirage. Had he REALLY known so many city officials? 

Mirage chuckled and basked in this frank admiration. Ironhide who?

Tracks came up to them and asked if they'd seen Jazz or Blaster or Hound or Sideswipe.

No.

He found them a mile to the west, cuddling against a rock. Jazz was lost in the gentle thrumming of Blaster's speakers as he watched the pageantry of the stars around him. Blaster wrapped his arms around the Porsche and squeezed, rocking tenderly along with the music.

"Remember this one?" Blaster asked. **"I love it when you call me Big Poppa."**

"**Throw your hands in the air, if you's a true playa!"** Jazz sang, one hand with a perfect wave motion. Tracks settled in between Jazz's legs and leaned back.

"'**Cause I see some ladies here who should be havin' my baybay-" **They moved their arms backwards.** "-Baybay."**

Jazz snickered and wrapped his hands around the Corvette before him. "You remember when our mentors did this with us?"

"Yeah," the other two sighed wistfully. A lifetime ago Autobots had a complicated system of training that involved intimate contact with their teachers. The memory lingered. Blaster let his grip tighten. The song in his player changed to Mase's **"Tell Me What You Want."** It seemed so soft, peaceful, steady…like…

* * *

"Are you awake?" 

Jazz jolted upright. "Yeah. Just drifted off for a second."

"Me too. What about you, Tracks?"

Silence.

"Tracks?"

Jazz tried to move around the wings to get a better look, but he was stopped. "He's passed out," Blaster proclaimed. "This happens every time. Lightweight." He snickered. "Check this out." He unlocked his clasp around Jazz and edged his hands along Tracks' wings. The mech did not utter a word, preferring to snuggle deeper into the one behind him. Something warm was emerging from the back of the unconscious mech.

"What are you doing?"

"When T passes out, T _passes OUT_!" He gently tapped his fingers along the helmet hood.

"I'm here," he interrupted sulkily, "just bored."

Jazz smiled. "Then do something."

The Corvette shifted, moving his body around to get more comfortable, until he suddenly rotated to face the Porsche in a lip-crushing kiss that almost swallowed him.

xxxx

No…that wasn't right.

xxxx

Tracks gave him a quizzical look. "What? What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just-" Jazz realized that Blaster was holding him down a little firmer than he should.

"-You have somebody?" he snorted, lips strangely plump for their display of disdain. "That can't be it. Who would you make a commitment to, other than energon? When's the wedding?"

Blaster laughed at that. "He'll take a little on the side when he feels like it." Blaster knew _way_ too much and seemed far too eager to share it.

"I'd say he feels like it. Look at that energy field!"

Sure enough, Jazz glowed a bright blue.

"Don't read into it," he replied, shrugging as though it were nothing.

xxxx

Rain. A lot of it, pouring down in buckets, drenching all of them as they sat on a rock. Blaster didn't care. He could withstand it. He cranked the music to drown out the thunder.

The bass was thudding in a pattern that rattled everything in a fuzzy way as the tune sensuously moved around, slithering until Toni Braxton's sultry voice interrupted.

"**You're making me hi-----gh baby, baby, baby, baby!'**

It felt like liquid heaven, the rain, the music, the way Cosmos' arms were fluttering up Jazz's shoulders to that sensitive spot where his arms met-

xxxx

Tracks snored offline, sensuously arching his back to meet with Blaster's tender ministrations. Jazz felt like a fifth wheel but to get up required balance, something he was sorely lacking as the energon in his system whirled him to new heights of perception.

"Here, hold his wings like this, I want to try something." The bass coming from his speakers increased, vibrating nicely against Jazz's back. Tracks' temperature elevated in front of him. That, combined with the energon, was making Jazz's equilibrium whirl. He leaned against Blaster and tried not to let the grin be too wide. Blaster was so clever. So good-looking. So…warm.

Blaster's fingers were tracing something in front of Tracks, on his chestplate, causing the recipient to let out a high-pitched whine that made Jazz feel even dizzier. Prowl used to make that noise. Blaster's head was so close Jazz could see the gleam of the moon off of his helmet.

"Hey," he said, to get the tape player's attention. Their lips met as naturally as a stone falling into a puddle. Blaster didn't give him much time to savor the contact before he turned his attention back to the task at hand. Jazz grunted, taking his hands off of the mech in front of him to reach the mech behind.

"Mmm!" Tracks apparently objected to being neglected. He reached out and groped for Jazz's hands to return from whence they came.

"Hey! I thought he was passed out!"

The tape player snorted. "Remind me later to lay it down for you."

Tracks sighed at Jazz's returning touch, leaning back. His optics remained dark, yet he reacted to a four hand job operating on him as though he were completely lucid. "Maybe you could lay it down now."

"When we were in New York a coupla summers ago we got blitzed and he passed out on the road. We got back and the slagger JUMPED me." He shrugged. "Next morning, he said he didn't remember a thing. Next time we over-energize: same thing. Every time. Finally, I tell 'em that if he comes near me again I'll beat the scrap out of him. So next time he tried to do it, I shrugged him off. He jumped Mirage."

"Ooh." Jazz remembered that. Mirage told EVERYONE. Tracks couldn't hold his head up in public for months.

"Yeah. 'Ooh.' " Blaster's face twisted wryly. "So it's me and he's safe or it's somebody else and he's slagged."

Tracks moaned loudly. The warmth emanating from his body tripled. Jazz suppressed a shiver as the vibrations behind him and the energy before him met and reverberated, rattling his entire circuitry; these met with the exhilaration of being over-energized and he could barely contain himself. Blaster's mouth pulled like a magnet.

"I'm hard to resist, aren't I?" he snickered between metallic meetings.

"Mmmm," Jazz hummed, sentiment echoed by Tracks. The Corvette was helplessly writhing. His legs pushed against the soft sand in a kick similar to a desperate swimmer's. His left arm reached up, up, up to caress the shaking black and white face.

"Dude's gotta be faking it."

"He ain't. Believe me. He cried like a mini-bot the first time he woke up and found out what he did. Every time after that Tracks acts like he's just killed somebody. I told him last time that I was tired of covering his sorry aft and he swears he won't do it and look at him now. If I let him go he'll tackle you before you've gone three feet." The blue mech had begun rattling, arms groping wildly for handholds and unable to accomplish this amidst his sensory overload.

"Ask him if he's having fun."

The very idea was revolting. "No! You do it!"

"You're closer." After some verbal parrying the Porsche gave in. Tracks almost took out Jazz's face with his jerking motions as his low moans escalated into louder cries.

"Having fun?"

He bashed his helmet hood hard enough to push them backwards. "Nyah!"

What the frag did that mean? Blaster didn't care. "Ask him if you should stop."

This still felt silly.

"Believe me, it's worth it," the tape player promised, sealing his guarantee with another kiss. Jazz pulled away on his own and lowered his vocalizer to a tone he used with Prowl on quiet nights.

"Tracks, honey, Blaster thinks we should stop."

"EH!"

It _was_ kind of funny, the way he couldn't articulate his desires but could more than demonstrate the pleasure that rattled through his body.

"Ask him who his daddy is."

Blaster was insane!

"Just do it! It's funny, Jazz, I swear."

It must be the energon, or the way he said it, or SOMETHING. Jazz leaned over and used his best purring cat voice. "Who's your daddy?"

"Altamaggots!" Tracks whimpered, body spasms increasing. Blaster laughed out loud.

"He never makes sense when he's like this. Right, Slagger?"

"Snsdinf."

Obviously that was not a word. "Why do you talk to him when he can't hear you?" Jazz demanded, having trouble with his own energy field.

"Babe, he doesn't listen to me when he's awake. I guess I'd rather talk to him when I KNOW he won't listen. It's easier to tell the truth to somebody sleeping. Lookout!"

Tracks' hips thrust upward to straighten him out, his whole body convulsed, and the warmest, sweetest blue light completely encompassed Jazz and Blaster. The tape player gasped and reciprocated. Jazz had to keep himself under control and felt his own field ignoring his struggle.

"_C'mon, hold it in…"_ he thought desperately. The field flared and raged and did not comply. Jazz had to bite his lips as pure ecstasy radiated out of him, smearing with the two that surrounded him and trebled to the point where the only reasonable thought was to pray there were no witnesses.

Tracks collapsed, sliding back down to the ground, completely inert against Jazz, who wondered what the hell he was going to tell Prowl. Blaster let out another hearty laugh before sagging backwards and panting for air.

xxxx

No…

xxxxx

**They were all in one place, a generation lost in space, with no time left to start again…**

xxxx

He'd been dancing for what seemed like forever when all five of the Dinobots engulfed him with large feet and strange demands.

"Salsa! Salsa! Salsa! Salsa!"

xxxx

He was alone. Completely alone. He had no idea what had happened and what was a dream; everything swirled and oozed and faded away like a ton of lava melting away at the earth and slithering into the sea.

"That was some good energon!" he muttered to himself, getting up and tottering over.

xxxx

Jazz awoke with a loud gasp that reverberated through the canyon wall. He was back in Blaster's arms, music softly playing, Tracks loudly snoring in front of him.

"I can't believe you slept through that!" the tape player exulted. "Tracks was so loud _Cosmos_ heard him."

His internal chronometer told him it had been a mere hour and a half since he'd last checked it. That couldn't be right, either. Nothing made any sense.

"What happened?"

"Tracks passed out. Then you did."

"What about you?"

Blaster snickered. "I just play tunes, man."

His processor was so cloudy still, it made sense yet it didn't. Jazz leaned against Blaster, trying to feel some kind of solid presence in his undulating perceptions. Recalling a few scenes from his dreams aroused something in him that made him want to be touched by someone, anyone, as long as it happened soon.

Then Jazz saw where Blaster's hands rested. So THAT was the source of all his feverish dreams. If only his processor was more clear-

The mad scramble to disengage was gleefully mocked; the one with the tight grip preferred to wrestle with the Porsche instead of allowing him escape.

"C'mon! We had a lot of fun!"

He had to find a way out of this without upsetting his friend. Settling down, he relaxed inside of the overzealous grasp. "That was the problem, Blaster my man," Jazz said softly, trying to sound regretful yet firm. He thought he did a good job. "We had a little TOO much fun."

"Says you."

There was too much red to process correctly, the music boomed beyond recognition, what was playing, it sounded like U2's "**Desire"** but Jazz wasn't sure. The ground whirled. "I keep feeling the earth move."

His fingers were loosening to allow him to caress the face in front of him. "That's why Autobot's pair up after drinkin', baby. Makes the whole experience better."

"You ain't my baby," Jazz retorted fuzzily, finally getting enough momentum to free himself. Prowl was his baby. He should call him. Right now. Just…get out of this mesh of arms and legs, stand up-no…maybe not stand up, maybe crawl-get to a patch of earth, and call his baby. "**Baybay"**….Catchy tune.

"Prowl, this is Jazz. What're you doing?"

"I am with Smokescreen."

"Can you cut it short? I need you."

"Negative."

"C'mon, get off of Smokey's windshield and get your afterburners over here!"

The one mech this didn't concern cracked up. "Burn!" he announced, louder than the response.

"Prowl out."

"PROWL!"

xxxx

It was that vision of Prowl on top of Jazz, smirking the way he did when their courtship had been in its infancy, those moments when cool methodical Prowl had been overwhelmingly feral on the plate, that image seared and melted inside of Jazz's processor.

"**Go ahead and scream, you cain't holdout**," the Datsun growled.

No, wait. That was Ludacris. Blaster's stereo blared, unseen, again making his processor waver.

xxxx

Someone had taken the opportunity to creep up behind, hands caressing the black and white body in front of him. "What's gonna be, baby? The mech said he's busy. When was the last time he took time for you, anyway?"

The tape player slid into Jazz's line of vision and placed his hands on Jazz's chest. "I'll come every time you call." Everything was spinning even harder.

"Uh-uh. No." He was being attended to by the wrong individual, lips being nibbled erotically while the larger red mech did a number on his shoulders and arms. It tickled. "No! Hehe. NO! Seriously!" Jazz tried to disentangle himself and fell onto the ground instead. That was some POTENT energon.

Blaster looked down at him as the Porsche clawed at the earth laughing hysterically over nothing. He regarded the staggering black and white mech with a disgusted optic. There was over-energized, and there was SMASHED. Jazz was most certainly the latter of the two. Even so, he was not as open to stimulus as the passed-out Tracks. "You are blitzed out of your processor. Ten bucks says any minute you'll-" the retching sound proved him correct. Nasty! "-Purge your fueltank."

Jazz coughed and spat and crawled away from the puddle of energon, kicking up large clouds of dust as he went. "Prowlie-bot, where are you?" he moaned despondently into his radio.

"He ain't here." Blaster declared in a voice that suggested that he never would be. He made a move to assist Jazz onto his feet and was rebuffed for his efforts.

"Get away from me, man!" the Porsche cried pitifully, brandishing his arms haphazardly. "I just wanna go see Prowl." The mood had been killed; thankfully before Jazz had to start hitting anyone.

"Jazz! I'm just helping you inside! Primus! Get home before somebody sees you!" He gave up on one and went to aid the other. Tracks staggered up with help, groggily asking him if he had any polish.

"No, ya drunk," Blaster chuckled, amused. "We're on Earth."

Jazz gradually wrenched himself upright and limped away, not looking behind him.

Tracks looked up and glared at his associate with the only optic that willingly functioned. "He's a loser. Why do you hang out with him?"

Blaster laughed, dragging his friend home to recover. "He asked me the same thing about you!"

* * *

It's hard to detect a wall when it keeps moving around. Bump. Within the dark shadows of their room he staggered back inside, covered in dust and smelling of recycled spiked energon. There was a compelling silence, one that almost blocked the feeling of guilt that had been growing on Jazz as each step brought him closer to home and farther away from inebriation. Remorse came out of the walls and bounced off of him, flooded his spark, made him wonder if Prowl could feel the shame from wherever he was. It had to be the energon that even now was loosening its savage grip on him. "I need to lay off that stuff, man," he sighed to no one in particular. "Every time I do this I end up fighting off some horny mech." 

The light flashed on, revealing Prowl standing by the switch like a wall accessory. He said nothing, merely taking in the sight before him of a dirty, foul-smelling wreck who was trying to grin nonchalantly while swaying in a non-existent breeze. This was a far-too familiar sight. "And for which horrible betrayal am I to forgive you for this time?"

Jazz chuckled as he settled on the edge of the recharge berth. "Can I help it if everyone thinks I'm irresistible?" he joked, kicking his feet back before swinging them onto the plate completely.

"_I _don't. You're covered in dust." Prowl moved away from his station at the light and glared at his bondmate as wrathfully as he could. "When was the last time you bathed yourself?"

"Don't like it, go sleep somewhere else." He had settled in and was waiting for the comforting surge of electricity to begin.

"Who was it?"

"I got nothin' to say to you." His visor sharply focused, almost a deadly slit. "Have you got somethin' to tell _me_?"

Prowl let out that long-suffering sigh he enjoyed using to torment. "_Who_?"

Jazz sighed back. "I don't know. I _don't_." The scowl continued simmering above him. It made Jazz miss the wild passion they'd once shared. That had been what had brought them together, now its inverse seemed to tear them apart. It was infuriating; like the most miniscule comments were a catalyst for the most venomous arguments, to the point where anything was a cue for a clash. "There was…Tracks and Blaster and I could _swear_ Cosmos was in there somewhere but that might have been a trick of the light. Oh, and all the Dinobots."

"Blaster again?" Prowl knew all of Jazz's tricks far too well, including the Sarcastic Overexaggeration of the Truth. "I thought you told me you were _sorry_ about that particular incident. You begged. You groveled. You gave me a fairly decent waxing to make up for it. I suppose this repetition means all previous entreaties were lip service."

The overhead light went off but the fire of indignation raged. Any penitence Jazz had felt earlier was engulfed as their usual fight, never-ending and always simmering, flared up with a vengeance.

"You told ME you understood. That it was forgotten, that _I _was the only one who was holding it over me." He didn't mean to, but the Neck Roll was inevitable. "Seems to me you've got a few titanium skeletons in your supply closet, too."

"You're projecting again." Prowl climbed onto the plate, arms and legs kicking the unwanted jetsam that was his beloved to get him to move over. "I am weary of being the only one whose needs and desires are ignored. You cheat on me with a flippant attitude-"

"It was probably only some kissing! Just some harmless fun! If you got that stick out of your tailpipe and came with me you'd-"

"-Witness Prime losing the last of his dependable officers!" Jazz was not moving, which meant that Prowl had the smallest corner of the plate. Why couldn't this mech learn to share? "You _cannot_ conduct yourself in this manner! You are an officer and you need to conduct yourself accordingly, instead of humiliating me at every turn!"

Jazz reared up and pushed back, pinioning the Datsun's arms down. "Whoah whoah whoah WHOAH! What the frag are you TALKING ABOUT!?!" Visor met optics and both glared. Jazz released his hold and listened to Prowl's back hit the plate. "Man, frag you! Everyone keeps telling me: 'Look out, Jazz, Smokescreen's been after your mech since Day One!' 'Jazz, do you SEE Prowl anymore?' 'Looks like somebody's snaking you!' You spend every online moment running to Smokey with your panic attacks, but I get drunk and somebody kisses me, and suddenly I'M the bad guy? FRAG YOU!"

The door banged loudly. "Will y'all knock it off? Ah can hear ya in the hallway!"

Prowl lowered his voice to a hiss. "We've had this discussion before. SEVERAL times. I am tired of this impasse I have with you, Jazz. You may not realize it, but there are TWO of us in this room, yet only ONE perspective is considered. What you do out there has repercussions _here_."

"Same thing with you! Where were you when I needed you? You were off with Smokescreen!"

"So says the Autobot who claimed that he would honor his promises if he and I were DOING something of interest. Yet he was always leaving me."

"Maybe I was _going through a phase_."

A long, biting silence was Prowl's retort.

Jazz sighed. This was not going to end any time in the present, and the sooner he apologized the faster he could go offline. Jazz leaned back onto his side, reconsidered his position, and moved over to lay his head onto Prowl's chestplate. "Baby, I'm tired of fightin'. I'm sorry." He tilted his visor _just so_ to emphasize his appeal. "You know I love you. I'm gonna be here for you, I promise. Can you forgive me?"

Prowl assessed this move. Classic Jazz. He knew he would not win this battle, and that he did not have a leg to stand on, and that he needed the rest of the night to recuperate from his binge so that the battle could begin again tomorrow. He'd even thrown in another empty promise. Hurt, guilt, and resentment lingered through the air with a density almost matching the scent of energon and dust. They seeped out through their spark link, whether it was wanted or not. It would be there tomorrow, when the war began again, and it would continue as long as their acrimony prevailed. There had to be a way to stop this cycle, to lance the infection so that the healing could begin, but Prowl didn't know what to do. Whatever he did was wrong. Like Jazz, he was tired of constantly sparring with his partner; there HAD to be a way to break free. The conventional way had not worked any of the other times Prowl had attempted it, but there had to be a solution, a logical option…but it would not come to him right now. He had to exonerate Jazz's trespasses or the bitterness would eat away at him for the rest of the night, but something kept him from doing it. Deep in the barely lit room a pair of arms intertwined around the dusty, dirty sports car. His white fingers traced the edges of the visor.

"Baby…" it made Jazz snicker to hear him say that. "I will always forgive you." His vocalizer throbbed with emotion. He meant it. It didn't make him feel significantly better, but it helped. Perhaps some of the guilt Prowl himself felt could be assuaged. "But this is a grave offense, and I cannot right now."

Jazz's smile in relief faltered, his happy grin shattered as he stopped from his attempt to plant a quick peck on the cheek above him. Instead of his usual 'We can work it out, Prowlie-bot. Don't stop believin' he exclaimed a thoroughly bewildered "WHAT?!"

If there was a song lyric to employ, the Porsche would be happy to utilize it. It was irritating. This exclamation was a welcome relief. Prowl leaned back and shut off his optics.

"Go offline, Jazz."

The Porsche scowled deeply. "You piece of TIN. Don't tell me you can't forgive me for this and then tell me to go offline like I'm some kind of drone. Why can't you? You've done it before!"

"_Go offline_, Jazz."

The visor flickered with wrath. "What do you want me to say, that you can go do the same thing? Go ahead! Corner Prime in a meeting and see if that mask comes off! Make out with Ironhide, Primus knows everybody else has! Bang windshield with whomever the frag you want, if it deletes that self-righteous tone out of your vocalizer!"

"Jazz-"

"_Go offline, Prowl._" Jazz stood up and marched out of the room without a backward glance.

"Where are you going?" the Datsun called, sounding somewhat shrill to him. The door slammed in response.

A pair of blue optics shimmered lividly in the dark. The machinations that would be rationality soothed his guilty conscience. He had felt terrible about his attraction to Smokescreen. Now…"_Go ahead_?" he repeated to the empty room. It didn't echo, but it had a vibrato. "So be it."

Let the retribution begin.


	24. Bumblebee, Come Over Here

"HIT THE DIRT!" Cliffjumper screamed into their radios as he dove for cover behind a large pile of what used to be Motormaster's trailer.

Bumblebee knew what to do: get behind something large, fireproof, and stupid. A somewhat confused Devastator looked down to see several squashable little Autobots at his feet but before he could lift a leg the smaller section of a giant complicated electrical web that had netted more than one enemy exploded into a million pieces and allowed enough shrapnel to fly through the air to puncture an optic visor or two. He broke into his separate but equally taxing pieces and flew off, cursing the Autobots.

And just like that…the space bridge was unguarded. It had brought Optimus back in time to see what kind of a mess his troops had gotten themselves into. Needless to say, the sight of seventeen Autobots ensnared in a giant energon net was _not_ what he expected, but then again, nothing Megatron did _really_ surprised him anymore. Except for today. He placed a well-aimed shot into the generator and those still free ducked for cover. Megatron would be back in minutes with the rest of his goons to protect this valuable property, and everyone looked like they'd just gone for a drive up a mountain without tires; therefore there were no complaints when he called for a roll out for repairs.

Wherever that nasty golden bully got his nasty disposition from, it must not be easy to contain if he could be so unpleasantly aggressive all of the time. Sunstreaker plowed through the quiet group of mini-bots without so much as an 'excuse me,' claiming that they were taking up too much space.

"Come back here so I can teach you some manners!" Cliffjumper cried, accelerating to catch up with him.

"Don't make me laugh," Sunstreaker snorted. "I could use you as a skateboard."

"Like you're so great! You were the first one caught in that web, 'cause you didn't listen to Prowl!"

"Only losers and mini-bots listen to Prowl," the yellow mech retorted.

"I'll keep that in mind," Optimus Prime interrupted behind them. "In the meantime, the battle is over. We have more pressing concerns than Sunstreaker's complete lack of consideration."

"Hey!"

"Or maybe Prowl would be interested in this conversation?"

Sunstreaker pulled back, muttering something about how Prime always took the mini-bots' side.

* * *

It was a dispute as old as the war they waged: was a mini-bot really useful in a time when large gestalts and larger guardians engaged in Titan-sized battles? 

Perceptor didn't think so. He claimed that with the advent of entire Autobot cities, sooner or later there would be a Transformer-sized _planet_ out there. Mini-bots were on the way out, to be rendered as obsolete as females and hardware-light mechs.

Ratchet argued that mini-bots would be even MORE relevant at that time; otherwise, who would do the delicate circuitry and small repairs that giants were incapable of performing?

Wheeljack claimed that sooner or later mini-bots would be considered large portable batteries for the big Autobots.

Bumblebee sighed loudly behind them as they walked down the hall. "Do you have to talk about this in public?"

They weren't sorry. That was typical. Mini-bots were regarded as something constantly underfoot, an annoyance, a metaphor for weakness. Spike called cowards 'pussies,' Sunstreaker called them 'mini-bots' and as far as the Volkswagon was concerned…neither sounded particularly uplifting.

* * *

He got the call about five earth hours later, when he had come back from an uneventful patrol. "Bumblebee, come over here," his leader plead in a slightly higher voice than usual. "I've tried everything." 

It was difficult not to expel air from his intakes too loudly. "I'll be there in a couple of astro-seconds," he uttered softly and hastily, rising with a loud _crack_ as his feet hit the floor.

* * *

Optimus Prime crooked his finger at him from his reclining position, head tilted at a 'come hither' angle. 

Bumblebee frowned. "That wasn't funny the first time you did it either, Optimus."

Crestfallen, the large truck shifted uncomfortably from his back to his side. "I can't do it," he grumbled.

"What, make a joke or go offline?" The signal for him to 'climb on' was when Optimus patted the spot next to him. There it was. Bumblebee clambered over and settled onto his left shoulder.

"Both," he replied lightly as the smaller Autobot backed up to fit into the niche his leader had created with his body. Already the urge to sigh threatened to bubble up.

Optimus Prime wrapped a large red arm around the mech, brought his legs up into a fetal position, and lowered his helmet to rest slightly above the smaller mech. His hand cradled possessively around the encapsulated being. His fingers did not probe or explore. He did nothing overtly intrusive. Instead the larger mech adhered himself to the smaller one like a starfish to a clam and used his power to force its prey to open up.

The yellow mech knew what was coming. He fired his engines to a low purr and could feel his fearless leader relaxing his grip into something less stalwart.

"Talk to me."

Inevitably should have been his philosophy, not proving his own worth in spite of his size. Bumblebee restrained his desire to exhale in exasperation. Like oil on a penguin, Optimus Prime covered every exposed inch of the Volkswagon, leaving no room for water or air to infringe upon the back-to-chestplate cuddling. Any loud demonstration of annoyance would be immediately noticed.

"Spike got a tattoo."

Prime chuckled low in his vocalizer, the sound offering a mild counter-vibration. "What took him so long?"

It had been a running gag in the Autobot army that sooner or later Spike would acquire the red sigil the rest of them sported. The human was all for it…until his girlfriend heard about his intent to mutilate himself and scorched their audios with threats that were not long forgotten.

"He waited until Carly went on vacation."

Well, that was to be expected. "What did he get?"

"An Autobot symbol on his left shoulder. Like yours."

Prime let out a hard enough sigh to rival the one Bumblebee had already swallowed twice. "Like mine…" he lamented. Emulation was to be pitied, not admired, according to Prime's low self-esteem. "We all have this badge, Bumblebee."

"I know." The urge to sigh was now being replaced by the easier to hide Expression of Frustrated Melancholy. Prime couldn't see it when his optics were off and Bumblebee faced away from him.

There was a long pause as Prime awaited the rest of the story. "He got it, but they didn't tell him it would be $600. He didn't have that kind of money on him, so he talked the tattoo guy into letting him have it for $300 if Jazz would give him an autograph."

"What's that?" Prime asked, voice already sounding slightly drowsy.

"His name written down. Jazz told him that he didn't spell his name with Spike's alphabet, so that tattoo guy had Jazz burn his thumbprint on the back of his hand."

"Unusual," Optimus commented after a long pause. He gently rubbed his faceplate against the yellow helmet. Bumblebee revved his engine in response.

"Ah, Bumblebee…" Prime was getting more sluggish as he lay there. Soon he would drift offline, into a place where his worth wasn't constantly second-guessed and the soft lull of a Volkswagon engine purred like a languid cat in the sun.

At one point in time, Optimus Prime had been Bumblebee's god. Mini-bots WERE being used as forced slave labor and batteries and all those horrible things Perceptor and Wheeljack's detached discussion debated, but one robot had found a use for them as sentient partners in his fight. For the first time in vorns mini-bots were useful _robots_ instead of useful _tools_. Prime had been an object of worship for that. Unfortunately, he wasn't a god, he was a machine. God was not mechanical-at least, this one wasn't. It deflated Bumblebees' tires to think about it.

Bumblebee could recall the feeling he'd had when he'd found the being he would vow to hold in awe for the rest of his existence. Throughout the explosions that were crumbling guardians above him, blue and red-the colors of his savior-stretched out to offer shelter and redemption. Now those arms were dull from disillusionment brought by reality; some wanted to be engulfed by their deities, but Bumblebee hadn't expected it to be a _literal_ process.

Prime snuggled tighter. "I spoke with Ironhide, Prowl and Jazz today." Bumblebee scowled slightly. Those three only talked to Optimus when there was a problem. "They have agreed with your request to make a mini-bots a separate team." The frown uncreased immediately and the small mech almost jumped off of the plate as he stretched around to face his leader.

"Optimus! You mean it?"

His optics crinkled in a friendly way. "You still report to Jazz, but you have been made team leader for the mini-bots, which means you are no longer required to radio him for authorization to act in your missions."

That cleared up an UNBELIEVABLE amount of red tape. It also gave Bumblebee a great deal of clout, something he'd been itching for ever since he had joined this renegade band of Autobots. "Wha-who-I-uh-_thank you!_" He almost rotated around to hug him but caught himself in time. Optimus did not want THAT kind of reaction.

Prime squeezed Bumblebee in that tight grip he'd had him in earlier. "It was the least I could do to return the favor."

That was what this was. The yellow mech wondered if he should be relieved that his duty of 'Snugglebug' was finally defined or not. "No problem, Prime."

"Now, talk to me some more."

"Um…I've kind of got a thing going on with Cliffjumper."

"Wonderful," Prime drowsily replied.

"He wants to know where I've been some nights."

"Did you tell him?" the truck asked, suddenly awake and alarmed.

"No…can you answer something for me?" He didn't wait for a response. "Before you disappeared to Cybertron for that week, you only needed me once in awhile, but ever since then you've been needing me every other night. Today we risked our necks to help you out and you told us when we got back here that we didn't have to worry anymore, you wouldn't be going off to Cybertron." Optimus had also apologized for what he'd done and for all of the deception that had been going on lately. He'd told them it would never happen again. "What happened out there?"

Prime sighed. Bumblebee envied him. "I've been lying to myself as much as I've been lying to all of you, and it had to stop. Today the embodiment of my subterfuge presented itself when the space bridge door opened and Wildrider was there to greet me, which meant that my mistake had been noticed by the enemy. I know that this is a confusing response to make, but it took a Stunticon to make me see the error of my ways."

Autobot gossip filled in the blanks. "You mean…you were going up to Cybertron to see Shockwave? Why?" It was as though Bumblebee were a child who had learned that there was no Santa. "How could you?" They had almost been crushed by Devastator today!

"I am sorry."

"Damn right you should be sorry! You are PRIME, and you were associating with the _enemy_! This whole time I've been blindly defending you from the other's talk, and you've been SEEING SHOCKWAVE! How-"

Optimus hugged Bumblebee so hard metal creaked. "I will be ashamed of this until the day I am scrap but _please_ Bumblebee TRY to understand. I am not perfect. I'm just an Autobot, and like you and Jazz and anyone else on this team I have flaws and right now the guilt has kept me from functioning normally- to the point where I can no longer go offline." He squeezed even harder. "I cannot live with this guilt anymore, and I need your help."

Right. Like he did right now. He couldn't go offline and now he needed reassurance that he was a good Prime, a great Prime, and that his offenses were forgiven. Bumblebee was EARNING that promotion. He revved his engine to a light purr.

"Everybody makes mistakes, Optimus. You can, too. Nobody got badly damaged, and now that your thing with Shockwave's over we can get back to normal."

The grip lessened. He let the motor hum a little longer.

"Besides, it's not that big a deal. In the larger paradigm of life." Primus help him, he was quoting Perceptor. "You're doing a great job here with us, and we're going to be fine. I'm not giving up on you, just like I didn't that time you all had reversed personalities after recharging, thanks to Megatron."

The grip was relaxing as fast as flowing water from a river. Bumblebee let his engine rumble a little louder, and to his relief a growling snore replied. Prime had fallen asleep.

Although he'd been told numerous times that he could leave once this had happened, the yellow mini-bot couldn't. Prime might wake up and need him. It was this need that kept him going, kept him faithful to his god, even when the clay feet of his shrine were revealed, and Bumblebee needed that idol's dependency more than ever at this point in time. He leaned into the cradling body and listened to Optimus' offline noises until the recharge period ended with the sun coming up.

"Thank you, my friend," Prime sighed as he rose.

"It was the least I could do, as a favor," Bumblebee replied.


	25. Never Yours

Dedicated to Joe. I'll forgive you someday. I'm working on it.

* * *

Clank clank. 

_Cha cha-cha._

Clank clank.

_Cha cha-cha._

It's hard to differentiate which noise I dislike more: the banging of Carly's half-hearted drumbeat or the soft padding of the one mech I REALLY hoped I could avoid today. He approached one step at a time, the only way I can take him.

"_**The sound of your footsteps, telling me that you're near. Your soft gentle motion, babe, brings out a need in me that no one can hear, except**__-_ Oh." The music cut short. "Hey Prowl. Are we too loud?"

"You would have to ask Smokescreen for that particular opinion. I came here to remind you that your hours of operation are from 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm. It is now 9:01 pm."

"Aww, let 'em play!" Bumblebee cried. He listens as he awaits Cliffjumper's session to come to its thrilling conclusion.

My door is unexpectedly opened, and my spark flared up a little at the majestic sight of him, Prime's second-in-command. Few Autobots have the privilege of walking in without being regarded as annoying. Fewer still can claim they hold the codes allowing them access when they're not wanted, which is when I have a client.

Prowl stared at me, taken aback, as though he hadn't expected me here, which makes no sense because where else would I be? We were together for the smallest microsecond of time-two earth years (almost)-but that's long enough for anyone to get a general idea of someone's schedule. He recovered by opening his mouth to ask a question which I don't feel like hearing.

"They can rehearse as long as they want," I explained, trying to keep the venom out of my address. "We're just finishing up." After that I'm going to Red Alert and requesting he change my passcodes. He'll do it. He owes me some favors.

Prowl hesitated for the briefest second before nodding. He's been most amiable these last few months after re-uniting with Jazz, something I hadn't acknowledged as truth until it was FAR too late.

"Take it from the top," Chip announced, sounding as bored and exasperated as the other two. They had agreed to do this "1960's Music Extravaganza" event for Jazz (the greatest persuader, second to Megatron), even though everyone KNEW that the Dinobots were going to win when they put on fake wigs and lip-synced to the Beatles ("Me Slag Stuart Sutcliff!"). Spike, under duress (Sparkplug), convinced his fellow humans to help him out. Chip is playing the bass guitar and Carly tries the drums while Spike strums his new guitar. I have no idea if they're any good; all I can detect are the sound patterns. Earth music is not my forte.

"So what do I do?" Cliffjumper asked.

I try to use a more cognitive approach to my therapy sessions. If I ask enough questions fitting the general pattern that my patient processes eventually he'll deduce his own conclusions. Unfortunately, Cliffjumper is a follower to no one's logic; a hardheaded mech who tends to conclude exactly what you didn't want him to, even if you've deliberately tried to maneuver his thinking the opposite direction. He can see where you're going and he's not following…with one exception.

Spike hit a note that didn't fit into the pattern once, twice, three times. I regarded Cliffjumper with impatience.

"What do you do? What kind of stupid question is that? Bumblebee wants you to do something you don't, right?"

"I don't?" He liked to stall for time by repeating whatever I've just said in that bewildered tone.

"You said that you weren't ready to build a kid, that you had Decepticons to battle and a war to win and glory to earn and that you weren't sure you wanted to make the choice between fighting and parenthood. Right?"

"No!" Another stalling technique. Cliffjumper had that stubborn expression on his face that he gets when he's ready to contradict whatever anyone-including himself-just revealed. "I just said I wanted us to be happy!"

I stood up. "Will doing what HE wants make you happy?"

Cliffjumper stood up, too, to combat my interference. I was getting too close to him, personally and physically. "I didn't say that!" His fists went ready and he made a combat stance by lowering his body carriage so that he could move faster and leap higher if the need to attack erupted. I leaned in even more, to further put him on the defensive.

"Then maybe I misheard. What exactly did you tell me?" He had an 'out' now, a way to truly say what he thinks. Will he take it or continue this slag?

"I told you that Bumblebee wants to get bonded and build a kid and name it 'Bumper' and I'm not ready and I want to make him happy but PRIMUS he's pushy and how do I get him off my…holy…" Realization always dawns on the stupid the slowest.

The greatest weapon I have is his denial. He was so worked up over proving me wrong, even when the Big Ugly Truth just transformed into Omega Supreme and shot him into atoms. I needed to provoke him a little more, though. I pounded a hand on the table as I accused. "You don't want to do it. You don't want to tell him because he throws a fit when he doesn't get his way, and YOU'RE too chickenbot to face him!"

"NO! I haven't told him because I don't know how."

Drill Instructors did this on Jerry Springer. "TELL HIM TO HIS FACE, YOU COWARD!"

"FRAG YOU! BUMBLEBEE! GET IN HERE!"

"_**In my midnight confession**__-"_ Clunk. The door closed behind the small yellow mech as he used that smile that belied his craft. "You rang, sweetheart?"

I try not to groan. Cliffjumper faltered whenever his bee used that honeyed tone. (Heh heh.)

"I-" he realized he's shouting and modulated accordingly. "I don't want to build a kid."

The golden smile melted into a hard line. "Why not, Strawberry Shortcake? Don't you love us?"

Oh, yuck. I should have taken lessons from this master, because I've lost Cliffjumper and there's no going back. Bumblebee has Prime wrapped around his finger the same way. "I just…don't want to."

"But…but…" his bright blue optics filled with tears and his voice went all gooey. Any minute now the 'if you _loved_ me' speech would come out.

"Cliffy, if you _really_ loved me-"

"Stop right there," I interrupted. "Bumblebee, this type of language says that you're putting conditions on your relationship with Cliffjumper. 'If you love me…' and 'don't you love us' are phrases that tell him, whether you mean it or not, that he has no say in what is going on. You're telling him that he has to love you YOUR way, instead of OUR way-'our' being you and him. Now-" here was where I won the fight and got more work in the process. "-In the few exchanges I've seen, there are still several breaches of communication you are imposing on each other…unintentionally." I saw Bumblebee's mouth open and close as he prepared to interject. I know he wasn't listening, he was just waiting for a chance to take control of the situation.

"Why am _I_ the bad guy here? He's the one denying me what I think is the next best step in our relationship!"

Best mode of defense? "You're right. You ARE being made to look like the bad guy. Whenever you disagree, which is 10 percent of the time, this is how it seems; because neither of you are communicating your needs in the same language. It seems like he's not listening, right?" Bumblebee nodded slowly, distrustful. "What I want to do is get you two to learn to talk-and listen-to each other so that NOBODY misinterprets and makes the other look like the bad guy, so that together you can find a way to keep being as happy as you are the other 90 percent of the time. I can't do that alone." I grabbed both of their hands and tried to look as paternal as possible. "I need your help. You and Cliffjumper. When we've fixed this small bump in your relationship road, THEN you can plan for your future." Bring it home, Smokey. "You can't build a kid with a good set of axles if he's driving on a bumpy road. You know what I mean, right?" Bumblebee nodded more eagerly than Cliffjumper, who looked slightly dazed. He's so used to the glare of his mech's headlights he's not used to my own dark objections lurking in the same room. I had to fight light with a shadow of doubt, and it looked like I did it right, but with Bumblebee, who knows? He's a great spy because he's good at making you think he's processing a different way than he appears. "Great. I'll see you together here next week."

"_**When I tell all the world that I love you**__."_ The door clunked behind them as they left but the noise came into the room anyway. Although the sound is audible through the door I can tune it out if my audios are at 40 capacity.

My chair is a welcome support for my exhaustion and annoyances. It catches me, holds me, tells me that even though I didn't start out as a shrink and hate the whole thing and only get my kicks when I out-maneuver the control-freaks, I'm not that bad a shrink. I like that word. Shrink. I heard it on television once. It sounded like someone who minimizes problems. Shrinks shrink the almighty into manageable issues. They can save all but not themselves, for they are a bigger problem.

"_**In my midnight confession, when I tell all the things that I want to." **_The door is opened again and it's Cliffjumper. He's looked at me as though he really didn't want to be there.

"Bumblebee says you made a lot of sense," he recited. It's a lead-up. I had the same problem with Bumblebee's last Sweetheart, a cranky pushover who finally ditched him for a dog, of all things.

I couldn't contain the snort. "Bumblebee thinks you can work 'the problem' out by yourself, doesn't he?" Cliffjumper nodded miserably. "You know, you asked me what to do, and I got you to stand up for yourself, albeit briefly, but here's the real advice: we all do stupid stuff, stuff we know is wrong." I should know: I went against ethics and my better judgment so that I could hold Prowl in my arms all night. I ignored the nagging doubts about what I was doing to my practice and my reputation and how he was not letting go of Jazz in a timely manner. I became the laughingstock of the Autobot army, with exactly two clients and a very disappointed Prime. "When we kid ourselves into saying it's for love, and not for some instant gratification, then we have to ask if the compromise is worth the return on investment."

Cliffjumper is still the stupidest mech I know when it comes to abstract reasoning. "What do you mean?"

I got in his face, so close that there was no room for second-guessing. It's my best method to auger my point into their processors. "He's manipulating you. Dump the slag-sucker already."

"No!" He backed away, clenching his fists in fury, and rocked forward again. He was buying time again.

"There's a reason Gears broke up with Bumblebee, and he acted exactly the same as you, until he figured it out himself. Stop and think about what he's asking you to do, and _why_ he won't consider your opinion as valid, and THEN do your Autobot warrior posing in front of me. YOU didn't come in here because you wanted to, you did it because he-"

"SHUT UP!" I hadn't expected him to hit me. Stupid, stupid Autobot. Me or him, I'm not sure. Instead I had to fight off a furious blowhard. I didn't waste time; I paged Hoist and Ironhide, who peeled him off of me after a few good punches and carted him off to calm down in Prowl's office.

And now there's just Red Alert.

* * *

Red Alert is constantly moving, thinking, processing. He's an amplified version of Prowl. I could say that he's dangerously close to driving off the edge, but that's incorrect. Red is aware of everything, including the edge, and he avoids it with the maneuverability of the Lamborghini species in which he is a part. 

Lambos are intense by design. They see all, hear all, know all; complicated machinery impossible for another type of Autobot to appreciate without understanding the fine-tuned engineering that goes into them. As a mech, the Lamborghini has a heightened awareness of its situation, an enviable dexterity, and an ability to process at an instantaneous speed, making them ideal as warriors (or, in Red's over- analytical case, security guard). Unlike the majority of Datsuns, who are methodical and more detail-oriented and precise.

Red Alert is positive his heroic best friend hates him in secret. He's seen the signs. I'm not telling. Without positive reinforcement, he quickly changed the subject to Prime.

"He's been hiding information from everybody." There was nothing relaxing about his posture. "I know things about him that would change your entire perspective of this war."

"Like his unending obsession with personally disemboweling Megatron?" I asked, uninterested. Red Alert has told me the festering truths I really don't care about. I've seen every aspect of Autobot personality: the good, the bad, the ugly. They all sin, even though we never see it in some like Blaster or Prowl or Jazz or Prime or Ratchet or Ultra Magnus or whomever we hold holy at that moment.

"No." Red Alert leaned in. "I mean the way he was sneaking off to Cybertron to see Shockwave."

I could believe it. "I'm sure it'll end soon enough." The best way to deal with Red is to let nothing phase you, to show him that there's nothing worth over-scrutinizing or overreacting.

Red scowled and stared off into space, to my left. "It did, but not by Prime."

"How does it make you feel?" Sometimes I forget that I'm here to make them talk so that they can better accommodate themselves to the situation and be solid fighters. I think I forget it on purpose.

"Less able to handle the day-to-day security matters in this compound. His furtive outings were a larger entanglement than he realized. What if he confessed vital information, or showed the other side a means to circumnavigate my security system?"

"Are you speaking from experience?" I demanded.

Oops.

Red's optics glowered and his posture sprang to the defensive. "When I told you that the stain of Decepticon association lingers, unforgiven, and I cited the examples of Skyfire and Mirage…_you_ told me my fears were without foundation. _YOU_ told me that this inability to let go of the past was a _personal problem_ that we had to _work through_. A _security issue_, maybe."

"I say a lot of things."

"You said them about _me_!" I expected Red Alert to leap out of his chair and histrionically fling an accusatory finger at me before flouncing out. I was only partially disappointed.

Red stood up and stomped out, pausing by the door. "I _know _a lot of things, Smokescreen…and today I learned that you have no idea what you're doing. I'm not coming back."

"Gee, that's too bad," I replied, trying to hide my smile.

"Frag you," he snarled, slamming the door.

Did I mention the Lamborghini temper? Zero to pissy in four seconds.

* * *

Megatron has nothing better to do than force his minions to execute a bunch of stupid schemes. This time he's decided to blow up the moon. Again. 

"Team Omega! Megatron's sent Devastator! Aerialbots prepare for interception! Smokescreen!"

He commanded me to obey and I couldn't help but feel elated. He said my name.

"Prowl?" I tried to say it as sweetly as possible (after checking to see where Jazz was).

"I need you to give us cover!"

If only the first three words were being said to me, alone, on a deserted planet somewhere…"Got it!"

Cover was given, victory was ours, Megatron retreated, and no one patted me on the back or thanked me. They grouped together in their same old cliques and scampered off.

* * *

There's a million things I could be doing, things I don't feel like elaborating on anywhere near as much as I want to do them. I'm bored. There are things I _want_ to do, like find some friends in this giant rock pile, or go driving, stop hating myself for thinking about _him,_ think about someone else, or something. Maybe read one of those books Carly talks about, but I thumbed through one and found nothing great about it. Nothing sounded appealing. There's a minor pain in one of my fingertips I could have looked at, but that requires getting up. 

There's no point in getting up if there's nowhere I want to go, and nothing I want to do. I stare at the wall, waiting for something to happen.

I can almost hear the dust settle.

* * *

On the other side of my door there is activity. 

"_**But a little gold ring you wear on your hand makes me understand. There's another before me, you'll never be mine. I'm wasting my tiiiime**__."_ Spike stopped once he realized that he hasn't had any backup since 'hand.' "What?"

"Have you tuned that thing?" Carly demanded. She's not the type to sound disgusted, but the weeks of practice have taken their toll. No longer do they giggle.

"YES. Have you found the beat yet or is it at the door waiting for me to let it in?"

"Guys, guys!" Chip's tired of playing the mediator. Welcome to my world.

I didn't start out this way. I could communicate with any kind of machine to get it to do my bidding and made a fraggin' good profit. One day Megatron stood over me and tore me to pieces while my androids burned and when I came back online I was in fewer pieces and armed with knowledge of how to assemble a rag-tag team of Autobots peacefully without incident. There were, in the beginning, problems. I exorcised demons and convinced the unconvincable to do what they hated, in the name of preservation.

Even then Prowl was beautiful. He was scared and unsure of himself but smart. Thorough to a fault. He saw the personality flaws, issues, and lack of programming of which we were ignorant, and with his help I could rearrange this army to become a better fighting machine.

He had Jazz. I hated it. I swallowed the disappointment and swelling ache that never seemed to go away. I told myself that he was with someone who must be perfect for him, or he'd have had me. I got used to the lack of interest, the pain. I didn't expect it to bubble up, as it did sometimes when I was under stress. Then one day he came to me with a problem: he and Jazz were falling apart.

"_**Staggering through the daytime, your image on my mind. Passing so close beside you babe. Sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide, but…**_ WOULD you STOP it? Why can't you guys just play through this crappy song ONCE so we can get it over with?"

"Because you're going too slow again!" Chip replied. "I think we should fix problems as they come along!"

"If that were the case, I'd start with that slow as shit lead-in you did! Where was the downbeat?"

I've had enough. I'm not doing anything important, since most of my clientele eagerly evaporated once they saw me fall after my association with Prowl. I came over to the large open area they use, across the hall from mine. "Guys, it sounds to me like you need someone to give you some cues. Spike, do you really have to sing?"

"Am I that bad?" he asked, half-joking.

"No. You jut can't seem to concentrate on singing and playing consecutively. Carly, I get the feeling that you really do not care for the drums at all."

"I DON'T!" she replied. "I played string bass in the orchestra, so I know how to do what Chip does, but I had to switch with him because we needed someone with working feet to do it-shit shit shit shit shit!" She crouched down, looking extremely embarrassed. The wheeled human did not blink.

"I have Spina Bifida, Carly. So I can't do the drums. It's OK." He'd accepted this as fact, which made me wonder why the other humans couldn't.

"Why doesn't Carly do bass, Chip sing, Spike do lead, and you get someone else to do drums?"

"Who?" they asked.

I have no idea why I'm doing this. Maybe it's because there's a need inside of me to stop sitting in my office waiting for a miracle. "I'm not doing anything right now. I have an internal meter. I am sure I could find this beat Spike claims you've lost."

Spike smiled sheepishly. "I didn't mean literally."

Carly liked the idea, as did Chip. My hands were too big for any major dexterity, but I was able to tap out a steady enough rhythm (Chip took a few moments to realize that the thump was not the bass drum but an amplified internal mechanism of mine). Carly played the lower guitar and Chip tried the vocals. He was not very strong but he promised to work on it.

Bumblebee came to hear us, or reproach me, it was hard to tell. He'd glanced inside my office door before sitting down and staring at all of us.

Once we had done the song enough times to label our work 'progress' Spike ended practice and met up with his friend. "Hey Bumblebee! Where's Cliffjumper?"

This was the first question the yellow mech had expected but was the last one he wanted to answer. "Don't know. Don't care. Let's go for a drive and I'll tell you about it." He glared at me for the sparest of moments and transformed, peeling off, which is REALLY rude since it's bad manners to transform indoors when you're more than fifty yards away from the outside.

* * *

Even though I locked the door, Prowl marched in. Blast it all, _again_ I forgot to ask Red to change my code, and now he's too angry with me to help. 

"Your workload has decreased significantly," the Datsun declared in officious tones.

I can't help but lean on my hands and stare at him in his glorious form. "I'm helping out the humans."

He crossed his arms and scowled. He looks sexy when he's mad. That's another interesting human word. It distracts me from hearing his exasperation in my lack of patients. "That is not pertinent."

"Well, I can't help that my reputation's been ruined," I replied cagily. "Would _you_ go to a shrink who bumped windshields with his clients?"

Prowl did not waver or wince. He just glared.

I caved. "I'll put up advertisements and you can put me on some of Inferno's patrol shifts, if it makes you happy." It won't make ME happy. I'd be happy if you smiled at me, Prowl. Prove that I do something, _anything_, to affect your life other than fade into the background except when I'm causing some inconvenience.

"Inferno is not as overwhelmed with patrol shifts as Red Alert would lead you to believe," he coolly informed me. "However, I will accept your offer and place you into light rotation, anticipating a change in status if your patient load increases."

He's so cruel when he's professional. It's like he's talking to Bumblebee instead of me, the one who held him while he suffered the anguish of a separated spark. I can't rest on my hands any more.

"That won't be any time soon, thanks to my...indescretion. It takes time to heal wounds, Prowl. When you can't trust somebody, it takes even longer." If I can't get him to notice me, then I'll get the last word.

He departs without further discussion and I feel like all the light in the room went with him.

* * *

"_**In**__** my midnight confession when I tell all the world that I love you. In my midnight confession, when I say all the things that I want to…"**_

I can keep the beat and think at the same time, especially concerning today's events. Jazz is all over him. Not in public: even _he_ knows better than to do _that_. Instead there are telltale scratch marks all over Prowl's body; territorial inscriptions not buffed out or painted over. _Mine_, they yell defiantly. A dent looking suspiciously like a bite is on his neck. It mocked me as we shot at Megatron.

If I didn't know any better I'd swear he was doing it on purpose. If it were ANYBODY else…but it's not. Jazz is the model of grace and style and class. He's never said anything bad about anybody. Not even me. The whole time we fought over Prowl the most unkind thing he'd said was that I had no idea what was going on, and he'd been both drunk and right at the time. I wanted to hate him for being so great, for being the only mech I knew who could keep a hallway vigil for two years and not look pathetic to the other Autobots, a mech who probably could turn Decepticon and still be loved. I can't. He's fragging perfect.

In the only session he sat for (Prowl didn't like the idea of us in a separate room discussing him), Jazz told me that he'd love to meet someone who had a good reason for hating the Beatles.

"Some say they were played too much and others say they hated the White Album and a lot of Elvis fans think that they were over-blown, but those dudes sooner or later admit there was a song or lyric they liked."

"You're right," I admitted. Back then, I was kissing up to him. I wanted him to like me-to assuage my guilt. "I always thought _'Good Day, Sunshine' _was nice."

Jazz laughed at that.

"What's your favorite?" It had to be '_Come Together._'

Jazz stood up, smiling, looking me in the optic with his glinting visor. "You weren't listening to me, Smokey. I already told you what I think."

Had I paid attention I would have read into the hidden meaning, but I'd been preoccupied with establishing rapport. I had to think of something to ask.

"Do you compare yourself to that particularly human phenomenon?" I asked him as he walked out the door.

"No," he replied, unconvincingly. "A part of me isn't leaving to go solo."

"Yet," I sneered to an empty room. I was SO stupid.

* * *

They pass me in the corridors and outside when we drive on patrol: sometimes together in corporeal form, sometimes in spirit. When Prowl is alone I keep up some secret code only I know about and pretend I'm still recovering from the anger, keeping my civility. It prevents me from throwing myself at his feet and begging, something I've caught myself almost doing more than once or twice. 

When it's both of them I'm neutral. They're just two Autobots passing. Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes they greet me, sometimes I greet them, sometimes there is nothing. I like the times when there is nothing. I don't trust myself to speak.

When it's just Jazz…it's different. I want to ask him a million questions. Does he really bear a grudge? Did he suspect me all along? Is Prowl happy? What did they do after they made up? Does Prowl miss me at all? Do they talk about me? Would he consider a three-way?

That last one is on the edge of delusions so ridiculous it makes _me_ laugh. It definitely crosses the line, yet the image of Jazz looking up from throwing me against the wall, grinning, asking Prowl if it does anything for him, and Prowl's angry but impassioned 'yes!' is an indulgence I can't keep out of my processor. Another chance with Prowl…and Jazz forced to watch, or be a minimal player. Or to have Jazz to myself, just to punish Prowl and force him to betray his own logic circuits again. It excites me.

"_**There's a little gold ring, you wear on your hand, makes me understa-a-and. There's another before me, you'll never be mine, I'm wasting my tiiiiiiime."**_

He's improved. Barely. Carly announced that he doesn't have the right key. Spike told him he's stretching the notes out too far. They fought for a good long time before someone realized that my opinion might buttress one already stated, making one of them right.

"They're wrong," I declared. "From a mechanical standpoint-"

"Boo!" Carly jeered. Spike didn't get the joke.

"Thanks. You have it down, except that you have no empathy for the message."

"What do you mean?"

I had to untangle myself from the drums to make my point. "Chip, what is this song about to you?"

He shrugged. "Some guy likes a married woman and he can't tell her."

"You're right. But you're wrong. Close your opt-eyes. Picture this: the one thing you want more than anything else in the world is in front of you. Day in, day out. It hovers in front of your face and slowly kills your life force because somebody already took it. Have you ever wanted something so bad it keeps you up at night?"

He opened his eyes and glanced down at his legs. "Yeah."

"Haunts you in the daytime?"

His expression darkened. "Yeah."

I leaned in and murmured in his audio-ear thingies. "You can't tell anybody, so it comes out at night."

"Play the song, Spike," he ordered, not looking up from his feet. I hurry to the drums.

* * *

He marched in with a purpose. I watched him, impressed. "So my sign worked!" 

To prove to certain higher-ups that I was trying to continue what they'd hired me to do I put up fliers everywhere there was space advertising that I had changed my schedule. 'New hours! More flexibility! Come in and see how YOUR time works for ME, so that I can work with YOU!'

No bites. None.

Perceptor immediately confessed that he was here for advice only. "I cannot, to speak colloquially, 'get over' a certain…issue."

"Since when do you speak in an understandable dialect? Or seek advice?" I didn't want him coming in here and expecting a readout of his emotions to be so flippantly dismissed like a 'Dear Prudence' letter. I have real work, too. (Avoiding work is a full-time occupation!)

He lowered his head, defeated. He and Prime broke up over suspicious circumstances and Optimus has continually refused to reconcile. "Smokescreen, I'm in a terrible quandary. This pain in my spark is unbearable. How do I eradicate it?"

He's asking ME. I recall the time I had a useless arm and no repairmech around to fix it. I spent an entire vorn not using it, becoming inured to the limited mobility to the point where I STILL don't use the arm that often. The pain in _my_ spark throbs low and dull, intensifying when I think about it too much, which I do. It limits my ability to sympathize.

After the spectacular anger that caused my jettisoning Prowl he had the gall to sit down in the hallway with Jazz and stare at my door, like two rejects from society. I had to leave, and when they were still there when I came back I told Jazz that he'd gotten his prize already, just quit reminding me that they were a happy couple.

Jazz snorted. Prowl wiped his optics clear of fluid and allowed Jazz to help him up and keep holding his hand, pulling him away from me, head facing forward as though he'd been ready to leave the whole time.

I didn't cry. I don't-_can't_. Other mechs can weep profusely at every ruptured tire, but not me. It's not in me. I didn't think it was in any Datsun model, because up until that day I'd never seen Prowl cry. Bluestreak doesn't either, and he needs it more than either of us.

So thanks a lot, Perceptor, for reminding me of this. He doesn't even look like he expects me to help; more likely I'm a curiosity, a 'let's try this, and if it doesn't work, it's not that big a loss' type of attitude. I'll show him.

I stood up and sauntered around the desk and placed my hand on his shoulder, as though to guide him out. I even started to do this before pausing a few dozen meters before the door. His neck is so soft, so pliant. It calls to me as I lean into him, not embracing but pretty close. I make sure my words tickle his audios.

"Go into a room, all by yourself, turn off all the lights, drink as much energon as you can, think about all the hurt he did to you…and feel."

He's frozen. Surprise or umbrage, who cares? "Let it go, Perceptor. Let the hurt burst like a bubble and mourn the loss of something you had and can never have again. Grieve, but don't let it…" His shoulders are the perfect height to rest blue hands with fingers that caress carefully. "_Eat you up_ like a vat of acid." I can make 'eat you up' sound dirty. I did. He shuddered.

"I do not think that your behavior is appropriate." He's shocked. That's difficult to do.

"No more than your attempt to get a one-shot answer out of a complicated problem. Now…" I tilted his head back, so that I could take a look at that smooth gray neck. Datsuns love a small challenge, and Perceptor looked ripe. If only I felt like following through, which I didn't. Too much work. I glanced at the soft spot on his chin, which begged for kisses, and pulled away from his arms, which had somehow found their way around my doors. "You came for advice and I gave it. You can't move on until you let out the old coolant to make room for the new. If you want to talk to me about other issues, I'm here. Since you're not, get out."

He left without a backward glance. Just like Prowl.

* * *

"_In __**my midnight confession when I'm telling the world that I love you-oo**__."_ Chip's voice is as harsh and bitter as the clank of the drumbeat. We all join in, Carly harmonizing, Spike adding volume to Chip's tenor, I'm the bass. 

"_**In my midnight confession when I say all the things that I want to-oo. Na na-na na na, na naaa na. Na na-na! Na! Na! Na na nih-"**_

I had no idea that this could be so much fun. Music is it's own language. When I started this I spent a lot of time learning new words. Measure. Phrase. Tempo. I loved it. I still can't tell what humans define as 'good,' but I'm learning something about it. Spike told me about the emotional retrieval elicited from chords and words.

We're getting close enough to the show date to begin debating trivialities. We don't have a group name, which I've been told is an important factor, or a group look, which will get us 'extra points.'

They think they should match me, but no one owns maroon and all three are too heavy on the credit side of their financial ledgers to consider purchasing new. I inform them that I can change my coloring.

"Great! Go black and white like Prowl! We all have THOSE colors!" Carly declared. She's a lot more enthusiastic now that we don't 'suck,' which is another word I'm trying to figure out. It's negative.

"Says who? I don't have black pants!"

"Yeah you do!" With a dramatic flourish I'd not seen since Hoist attempted a magic act with his lovely assistant (Windcharger), Carly brought out stiff black pants that have seen better days.

"Where did you get _those_?" Chip asked, bewildered.

"Are those part of your old orchestra uniform? No way! I'm not putting on something a dozen violin players have sweated in! Ugh!"

Spike seems bent on causing fights. He wants to wear his jeans with different colored shirts, so that my look can blend with theirs: Chip has a hunter green shirt, Spike has a khaki one, and Carly could wear a light blue one that matches me.

"That's such a preppy color scheme, though." She objected. She'd been carrying those pants for awhile.

"Who cares? The only people stupid enough to dress the part are the ones with no talent."

I automatically turned my head to see if Grimlock and company were spying on us, but nobody comes around here, and they didn't, either.

"And we, Six Wheels and Six Legs, have talent."

Carly made a face. "That's a horrible band name, Spike."

"I thought of it," Chip supplied.

"Oh." She looked like she wanted to hide again. Chip tried to reassure her that it was okay.

"She's right, that doesn't really grab anyone's attention. Besides, I have legs, too. Why not try one of those clever word play names?" Human words fascinate me. I like hearing them talk, since their noises are all so vastly eclectic. It amuses me that some words can have different meaning but sound the same. "Something like Showgun."

"Nah. Makes me think of Guns N' Roses. Roll for It?"

Carly made an overenthusiastic noise of approval, which didn't seem appropriate, either.

Spike had been tuning his guitar the whole time, softly playing chords in an absent-minded way. "Play it Loud?"

We shrugged, still deep in thought. "Sounds like a song title," Chip said, fingers tapping on his chair's arm rest.

"Yeah…Hm." Carly thought for a minute. "There was song where the chorus started with 'Say it Loud.' It was some Eighties band."

"Mike and the Mechanics," Chip supplied.

All four sets of our optics met at the same time.

"With a minor change….I like it!" I said.

"I'll wear blue for that!" Carly cried.

Spike smiled. Chip called for us to 'take it from the top.'

* * *

We cut practice short sometime around midnight, when Megatron decided to attack Tokyo and blow up Mt. Fujiyama in an attempt to bury the city in an avalanche. We staggered back, in time to find out that Starscream had rallied a small army of drones to blow up the Ark while we were out, but he was stopped by Chip, Red Alert, Spike, Carly, Omega Supreme, and a special invention of Wheeljack's that decided to actually work this time. Megatron showed up to beat the slag out of his wayward assistant, so we were pinned down for yet another large chunk of time before the Decepticons decided to call it quits. THEN my patrol shift started, this one a short stint of only nine hours. 

So when a black and white stranger decided to show up at my door at sundown, thirty-two hours since my last recharge, I was less than enthusiastic to see him.

"Double-headers don't seem to take the spring out of _your_ step," I growled resentfully.

Jazz smiled with the benign patronage reserved for Gears when he's at his crankiest. "I heard you were the mech to see."

"Oh really? How?" We'd had exactly one session.

Jazz could lean causally against a door and smile warmly enough to make you think he thought you were the only mech in the room. I _was_ the only mech in the room, but still…it was just a feeling he gave.

"The sign in the commissary."

"Oh." I was way too tired, but if I went offline now I'd throw my whole cycle out of whack. "What can I do for you?"

He eased in with a confused look of uncertainty. "I don't know…we've had a past."

I had to lie, just to keep the remains of my shredded reputation as impeccable as possible. "That was a long time ago. I'm sure we've gotten over that."

Jazz sighed a long, dragged-out exhalation of a hopeless mech and sunk into the chair, putting his head in his hands and shaking unhappily. "I need help."

I waited.

He continued to droop, all of him. "You see, my partner's in love with somebody else."

"Somebody else?" It wasn't me. It _had_ to be me. Please, let it be me.

Jazz leaned back on his chair, looking as melancholy as he could. "I thought he told you?"

My hope is built on flimsier fancies. "No! Prowl never told me! The few times we've spoken as of late," I amended quickly. "I mean, we 're in battle or in the hall or something, but um-"

He gave me a commiserative nod. "So he's been hiding it from you, too. You know, it breaks my spark…I mean he held it in for so long…"

This had to be a lead-in to something. Jazz wouldn't do that. Maybe he would. Where was he going with this? He had to be telling me that Prowl was still in love with me, he _had_ to. There was no other reason to come to me.

"He never talks about his feelings," I replied, trying not to get caught up in the tumultuous current of hope. "Maybe he should."

"No way! I don't want to hear him going on about it anymore. I mean, it's bad enough he makes up all these excuses to see him, and gives him all those _looks_, but MAN, if I have to hear ONE more word about Prime-"

"PRIME!" He was in love with Optimus? "What did you mean, PRIME?! What about me?"

Too late! "Gotcha."

The smile was so small, so precise, so triumphant, that I almost missed it. Okay, I missed it completely. I ranted about him being fickle for about a millisecond too long and realized that Jazz, staring me in the face, had just issued a challenge.

I sat back down in a rush. "You read into it too much."

"No," Jazz leaned in, smile gone. "I didn't."

There was nowhere to turn and no one to fight, except for him. I couldn't do it. Jazz had the power in the situation, because he knew that whatever he told Prowl would make me miserable.

"What do you want from me?" How I forced myself to say it, I don't know.

Jazz's perfectly controlled, cold face did not change. So many people forget who he is and what he does and how everything is done right the first time. He's a saboteur, a reconnaissance genius-a mech who can get the truth and more out of you without having to do anything illegal. Even taciturn Soundwave's talked under Jazz's control.

"Nothing. I just came here on a hunch. To talk to you about a problem, that's all. I think the problem's solved, right?"

There was nothing pleasant about that. I'd be afraid if I weren't so indignant. "I don't know. I get the distinct impression that you see me as a threat, which is weird since I wasn't seen as one when I was _with_ Prowl, so how am I one _now_?"

He gave off that sad, disappointed pitying look that was a dead ringer for Prime's, down to the tilt of his head. "You have no idea how pathetic you are. You've chased off all your clients so that Prowl has to come in here to yell at you. You've taken up extra patrols so that you can report to him. Every time we go fight you're a little too interested in what he's doing. Now you're in a band so that he _has_ to see you, since you _know_ I asked him to be a judge. Maybe you should tell me why you think you'll get him to notice you that way?"

"You have no idea how paranoid _you_ are," I retorted. "My clients left after they saw how I started a relationship with a patient. It's PROWL who comes in here to yell at me about the inevitable, not my supervisor, which is Optimus-not Prowl-and Prowl's the one who told me to join patrol. As for the band thing, I've been here all day, like I'm supposed to be, so I haven't heard _any_ of your announcements concerning your stupid pet project." I leaned forward to meet his visor, hoping he doesn't see the fear in my optics. "Maybe you should ask yourself why you're seeing something that's not there? Or better yet, go ask you sparkmate. I bet he knows."

Jazz laughed. It was a genuinely amused laugh, one that gave him grace to pull away from the tense poses we'd taken and ease out the door without making him look like the loser of this fight, which he wasn't because he had seen right through me like a clean windshield.

"Who do you think sent me here?" he sneered.

I don't have an answer for that. "Don't come back in here without a doctor's note" is the only thing I can think of.

"Later, Smokey." He walked out, pausing to give me another meaningful look, one that clearly stated that although it wasn't uttered, he did not want me near Prowl.

* * *

They're waiting for me the minute Ratchet let me go after another victory, a fight I really can't recall the particulars of except that I was in the back until they needed me to choke Megatron's air intakes while Bumblebee stole the remote control in his hand to stop the multitude of hidden bombs from decimating major earth cities. An extra kid sat behind the drums, beating the high-hat cymbals absently as he ignored me wondering why he's in my spot. 

Spike exchanged uneasy looks with Carly and Chip.

There's something wrong. "Is there something wrong?"

Chip smiled nervously. "Didn't Jazz tell you?"

Very wrong. "We were busy getting shot. What was he supposed to tell me?" I asked.

"Uh-"

I'm no fool. "What did Jazz say?"

Spike sighed. "I'm sorry, Smokescreen, and I don't agree with him, but Jazz said he thought we needed a new drummer, since-"

"-Since he thinks that the Dinobots should be the only Autobot entry. He wants it to be a human event. He found us one," Chip interrupted. The kid in my spot nodded curtly and began to hit the tom toms on his right.

Carly patted me on the hip glibly. "We're really sorry, but Jazz said you were getting into trouble for helping us, and he didn't want that to happen anymore."

"How considerate of him," I remarked, trying not to make a big deal out of it, since they weren't. "That's okay, I had other stuff to do anyway. Good luck."

A new drummer. The band gets a new drummer and I'm not supposed to be hurt by this. The only one who seemed remotely apologetic was Spike.

To make matters worse, my boss is coming down the hall and for a mech with a facemask he doesn't look pleased.

* * *

I beat him to the door by an astro-second, opening it for him and stepping aside while trying to smile. 

Optimus Prime does not smile. He can't. I don't think he would if he could, anyway. Facial expressions make us vulnerable to our enemies.

"I have heard reports."

He doesn't say what reports. How unlike him.

"You are not getting along with Jazz."

The logical mode of operation when Autobots have a psychological problem with the authority figures is to run to mediation, hosted by your friendly neighborhood psychologist.

"We had a minor misunderstanding but there is no tension between us," I replied, smiling falsely because I can. So my hard work was coming to fruition. "Does he think it requires mediation?"

Prime stared. He has a long, cool, appraising glance. "He does not; someone else does."

"Who?" It couldn't be Prowl, is that why he hasn't come by lately? I don't believe for a minute he sent Jazz over to threaten me.

"Me. You need help, and I can't put you into mediation when the mediator is the cause of the problem."

"You'll have to get someone else, then," I replied, knowing he didn't trust anybody to handle this kind of thing but Prowl and Jazz, and he knew better than to choose Jazz. Prowl would be alone with both of us. Alone with me. It would more than make up for the stinging disappointment of being replaced in a band.

"I have already."

"Who? Ratchet?" I only say this as a joke. A joke on Prime.

"Among others." The joke's on me.

"WHAT?"

Ratchet, Perceptor, and Seaspray marched in, stood in a line, and awaited orders. "Welcome to group therapy. Your leader is Blaster."

I put my face in my hands, willing the image of three embarrassed, one triumphant, and one amused Autobot out of my processor. They were still there a few seconds later.

Prime nodded brusquely. "Blaster is authorized to run these meetings as he sees fit."

"HOW?" This wasn't Prowl. Not even close.

"He's a master communicator." As if that explained the whole thing! "He'll do fine."

Blaster had them all sit down on the floor. All four of them plopped down and looked up at me.

This is not happening.

* * *

Spike and his new drummer were working on a new song outside. "_**Lemme run with you tonight-"**_

"Cop a squat," Blaster commanded. It was a suggestion that sounded authoritative. I didn't know he had it in him. So I sat.

"_**There's someone I used to see, but she don't give a damn for me. **_No, wait. That's not the right chord. What is it, E Major?"

"I don't know. Tom Petty's crap."

"So…Welcome to Sergeant Blaster's Lonely Heart's Club Band. We're gonna rap n' chill. Share our feelings."

"I don't have feelings," Ratchet protested sourly. "I've been threatened with permanent oil change duty if I don't come."

Our leader chuckled. "Whatever motivates." He looks at me, conspiratorially, as though I should sympathize with his problem and help him out.

"I'm not motivated so far," I interjected. A therapist he's not.

Blaster smiled sweetly. "Would you be more motivated if I shoved my fist through your windshield?"

"Ooooooh!" the others exclaimed.

"Shut up," I replied, sulking.

"_**Now let me get to the point. Let's roll, another joint-**_ Hey, slow down!"

"You're going too slow, dude. The song goes like this..."

"So like I said, welcome," Blaster announced cheerfully. "Prime asked me to get you all together because you're in deep denial over being dumped."

All four of us spoke at once.

"WE'RE JUST TRYING IT OUT!"

"It was a mutual separation!"

"I threw HIM out!"

"I couldn't stop fighting the Decepticons!"

Blaster laughed. "Total denial."

"_**Now turn the radio loud. I'm too alone to be proud and you don't know how it feels, no you don't know how it feels. To be meeeeee-" **_Spike laughed in the hallway with his new band. "Hey Bumblebee! Have you met-"

"Now that we all know how your last relationship ended, let's get to the good part: tell me why. Ratchet?"

Ratchet crossed his arms defiantly but lost the staring contest. "I walked in on him and Skyfire on the lab table. BUT we'd been seeing other mechs before then, so I don't know why this is different."

"You screamed to Wheeljack that you'd reprogram him into a washing machine," Blaster replied dryly. Ratchet muttered something about promising the same for him. "Go ahead, Perceptor."

"I do not see the connotation between Ratchet's emotional outbursts and _my_ issue. We agreed to go our separate ways, remain friends, and have thus accomplished our intended task."

"Is that why you're stalking him?"

Perceptor sat up straight in shock. "I'm concerned with his mental state! He has been acting in a bizarre behavioral pattern. He requires monitoring!"

"So does Starscream. Seaspray?"

"Prime called me back. It didn't want to, but I did."

"I heard a whole octopus' garden worth of mess happened before that." Seaspray didn't respond. "Go ahead, Smokey."

I, too, crossed my arms and shrugged my shoulders.

"The Quiet One. Go on. Tell me the truth."

"Whatever you heard isn't true but you're not going to believe me anyway, so why should I bother?"

He gestured around the room. "The others bothered."

"You shot them down for it."

"Na, man, I reminded them that their versions were heavily edited. The tune you're all singing needs a better producer before it can be considered a hit. If you tell me what really happened, and _not_ the version you think will help you cope, then you're ahead of your friends here."

"I told you: I threw him out."

I could feel all four of them staring at me indignantly. I don't care. It's MY office.

Blaster scowled. "You'll need more work than any of them."

* * *

That stupid band plays all the time, now that the concert is approaching with the speed of Astrotrain. Luckily, I don't have to hear it as often as I might; Megatron has a new plan every other day that keeps us busy. Somehow he lured us all into an auto graveyard where waiting were minions made from the surrounding junk, barely mobile. They looked like us, however, thus we were shooting at our own friends in an attempt to get rid of the zombies. Jazz (I think) got me in the hatchback when I rolled over to help Bluestreak (at least, it should have been). 

Last week I was on patrol for sixty hours straight with _Cliffjumper_, who still holds a grudge for Bumblebee dumping him. He refused to make any sort of conversation with me and demanded Inferno resume this post next time.

Unfortunately, when I'm not being smashed up by my fellow Autobots or covering Inferno's millions of shifts, I'm stuck in my own office listening to the usual assembly of morons.

Blaster has a perplexing modus operandi, one that gets results where I would have never expected them. He explained that what happens in this room stays in this room. Seaspray talked willingly, proving he's got nothing to hide. So what if Alanna decided she didn't really want to accept the realities of being in love with an Autobot? Perceptor refused to say anymore than he already had. Blaster countered that if we continue to drag our wheels he'll up the ante and we'll be in counseling sessions everyday, instead of every other day. Afraid of never getting to work again, Perceptor told us that he was hurt by Prime's running off and refusing to say where he went. Ratchet turned the air blue with his swearing, until he was out-cussed by our 'master communicator.' He laughed, the camaraderie was established, and he confessed that he worried about where he stood with Wheeljack to the point of uncontrollable jealousy. I resented that. Why didn't Ratchet ever open up to ME that willingly?

For some reason Blaster has left me alone. I'm wondering if he's saving me for later or trying to make me jealous or demonstrating how painless it is to admit that we can't stop loving those who don't want us anymore; I don't know, I don't care. I can hear Spike and Chip as they tap away at a new song, one Spike called Nirvana, which has me confused, since that's not what I pictured as eternal bliss. It must be one of those double-meaning words.

"_**I'm worse at what I do best, and for this gift I feel blessed. A little group is all it's been, and always will until the end**_**-**You're late! Again!"

"Lay off him, Spike," Carly retorted, footsteps quick. She must be late, too.

"I was yelling at _you_," he snarled.

"Bullshit!" She's hitting the bass strings as fast as she can to drown out Spike's follow-up. Suddenly the noise cuts out and she cries "Hey!"

"From the top," Chip declares, sounding as worn out and unanchored as I do.

"What do you think, Smokey?" Blaster asked.

I wasn't paying attention. "About what?"

He was not put out. "About meeting up in two weeks instead of next week?"

"Sure!" Not bad. This means I can go on another patrol.

"Great! So next week we're gonna do one-on-one time, and I'll start with Smokey on Monday."

What? Too late! They're breaking up the group and Blaster bolted for the door, calling that he'll talk to me tomorrow.

* * *

Blaster is not at my door yet today. It's Perceptor. He looks slightly off-kilter, as though he just crawled out of the recharge plate and got tackled. His chest is scuffed, his helmet scraped, his optics watery, and a bewildered smile is creeping up his face as though it's working on it's own. 

"I'll have you know that I took your advice," he announced.

"You removed that stick from your tailpipe?" I demanded sourly. Carly has been playing the same bass line from "Rock Lobster" all morning.

A giggle escaped from those miscreant lips, causing me to snap my head back up. "What happened to _you_?"

He won't tell. He's too busy snickering over my nasty comment.

"Perceptor, it wasn't _that_ funny, Primus! I'm-sorry?" What will shut him up?

He cut his hysterics as curtly as he began them and got right to business. "Because your advice has rectified several…_problems_, I wish to repay you with an iota of information." He clumsily leaned onto my desk and breathed on me heavily spiked energon fumes, but I got the gist of it: if I go see Red Alert, and tell him that Perceptor sent me, I'll get to see something he knows I'd like to see. All I have to do is a minor favor of an inconvenient patrol for Inferno, which is something I do already. It'll be fun!

"Who are you and what have you done with the real Perceptor?" I demanded.

Perceptor was not annoyed. He waved good-bye as he tottered out, reminding me that this offer has a finite lifespan, and that I'd better go tonight, around seven-thirty pm, if I wanted to get my prize.

Ten minutes later Blaster breezed in with a professional air and declared that it's time to talk. I'm still wondering about Perceptor. Do I act this weird?

"I wanted to go over a couple of things," He began, sitting down without invitation.

"Sure." The best way to figure out what he wants is to hear him out, and Blaster talks a lot.

He's taken this role as counselor seriously. I've never seen Blaster serious about anything. Come to think of it, I've never seen Perceptor the mess he was when he flitted into my office, or Ratchet so eager to share his feelings, or Optimus Prime so secretive, or Jazz so jealous. Should I be egotistical and believe the whole Autobot universe is out of whack because of me? Or should I pull a Red Alert and think it's Decepticon work? Red Alert…Perceptor's suggestion…it would be a good excuse to make some amends and ask him his opinion on what's been going on. Not rampant curiosity or anything.

"-get you to open up more in group?"

I haven't been paying attention again. There's been so many instances I sit lethargically in a conversational fog when Blaster's around. "What would it take?" I repeated, hoping that's what he said.

"You got it," he replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of encouragement.

There needs to be as little said as possible, enough to make Blaster think he's dragged it out of me without him getting suspicious. Something to somewhat insult him, but at the same time, make him promise to do something to fix it.

"Well…I think if you'd quit being so negative to everybody, then I'd feel more likely to open up without getting shot down."

* * *

Knock knock. 

A camera lens assaulted my face and had the nerve to demand I identify myself.

"Perceptor sent me."

The door opened, a black hand attached to a white arm motioned that I come in, but _don't touch anything_.

He has too many screens; it hurts my optics to see so many of us hard at work or living while Red Alert is holed up in a dark room that smells bad, _watching_ us. This is scary. I knew he had cameras OUTSIDE of our rooms, but INSIDE? He knows everything!

"I don't tell anybody what I see in here," he grumped, as though I'd said it out loud. "It's none of their business. But you see what I meant when I told you I knew a lot more than you did."

Blaster's back in his communications station, making notes on a datapad. Before he left he promised to try to be more encouraging, after I pretended to be embarrassed by what I'd uttered. Blah blah blah, useless white noise-

"So what are you looking for?" Red asked, flipping switches so that all of the monitors change from watching everyone to black.

I still have no idea why I'm here. "All I know is I'm supposed to say Perceptor sent me."

Red Alert's optics have a strange sheen to them, as though he's considering me a threat to his comfortable hole. He can have it. "You get to spy on the Autobot of your choice! What did you think he sent you here for? I'm not allowing you in here to reevaluate my psyche. You failed at that already."

Now I'm really confused. "You just said that you don't tell anybody anything. How's that different from compromising our privacy for favors?"

Red Alert is no dummy. "Look. If I knew that what you'd see would compromise our security, I wouldn't let you do it. I'm doing this for Perceptor, who said you'd help me out if I did. If you don't like it, or want to go ratting to Optimus Prime, go ahead, but you'll miss out. Besides, Prime's somewhere classified until Friday."

The desire to see what's so special is too strong, and denial is a great defense mechanism. I've convinced myself he's telling the truth. I also remember the question I was going to ask him.

He stared at me and snorted derisively. "What you don't know about your fellow Autobots is _staggeringly_ incomprehensible."

EVERYTHING he does irritates me. "Would you like to tell me why everybody's acting like their personalities were captured and taken to an alternate universe, then?"

"They weren't. How can I explain this…" I figured that if he's such a know-it-all (again, wrong 'bot to be acting like this) then he might have a vague idea, or at least a wrong one I can mock.

For awhile the Lamborghini was silent. "Picture a pile of slag."

"So that's what you think of us."

"Shut up. What happens when there's a piece towards the bottom, one of the load-bearing supportive pieces, and it suddenly bends under the pressure?"

"The whole pile shifts."

"Exactly. Right now the Autobot army is shifting as one piece bends and reshapes itself. Once we've settled, we'll be normal."

I shook my head. "I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "You're assuming that _you_ are the piece that's bending."

"No, I'm not!" Yes, I am. "I figured you were talking about Prime."

Red Alert has begun to switch stations around again, moving the commissary to the lower left, lower right, upper left, etc. "Whenever anybody doesn't want me to know the _real_ subject of the conversation they substitute him for Prime. So who are you really assuming it is?"

I'm not going to admit it's me. Giving Red Alert the upper hand is humiliating enough.

He gestured to a separate monitor to my right, one that's not within sight of the others. "Maybe it's that one."

I looked at a screen that shows me an all-black room with nothing but the softest hint of blue light from the standard equipment of the wall monitor ricocheting off of the metal wall facing the camera. I saw the door open, orange-gold light spilling into the dark room. A white hand reached around to the panel next to the door and something clicked.

Light flooded the entire room, accompanied by beats. A few fleeting, pounding beats surrounded by a sensual bass, low lighting coming on to reveal a very familiar set of white hands coming into the camera's line of vision. The music eases into a low human voice declaring "_**When we met, wasn't quite clear to me, what you had in store was there for only me."**_ Prowl; onscreen, moved in front of the camera, from right to left. He occasionally jerked a shoulder or hip, more as a deliberate movement along with the music. He can't dance, but someone taught him to try.

"_**I've got to make sure you don't get away. After all you done, girl, to make me wanna stay…"**_

"Barry White again," Red Alert snorted out loud. I glanced at what he was observing, a hundred Autobots busy or offline. The one directly in front of him was Ironhide laying on his back. "Watch your own screen!" he snarled, turning me back.

The music swelled and Prowl paced. He's so graceful. I could watch him for hours. Funny how I didn't when we first got together. I was so afraid I'd wake up and find it a dream, or that he'd change his mind, I spent a lot of time trying to hold back my feelings since that was how I operated. I'm still not that emotional.

The song goes into another growl by the same deep-voiced human. "_**It's ecstasy…when you lay down next to meeee.**_**"**

Prowl paused for a moment to inspect a large green cactus. I remember that plant.

"_**Oh baby**__,"_ the human purred.

"Oh baby," Prowl replied, sounding robotic to ME. I had to laugh. He glanced at the door, occasionally jerking a shoulder with the beat.

The door crashed open without any fanfare, but only I jumped. It was Jazz, and he's looked better.

"Thundercracker tattooed his name on my rear end and Ratchet can't get another one hammered out 'til tomorrow! You oughta see it!" Sure enough, when he turned up his heels there's Decepticon lettering across where the back of his car form would be. One heel says Thunder, the other Cracker. "Megatron's on a coke high or somethin'! What is this, the fifth attack this-" Jazz stopped his rant to turn his head over to the Datsun before him. A slow smile curled up deviously. "Is that Barry White?"

Prowl nodded.

The mile widened to a barely-contained grin. "Did I leave it on? I'm sorry-" He stopped when his partner got close enough that their headlights would be touching.

"Jazz. You act like this every week, although antecedence should dictate otherwise." Prowl let a hand rest on the Porche's shoulder. "It is Wednesday. Eight o'clock."

"I never get tired of bein' told that," was his reply, pushing Prowl into the wall with a loud 'thud.' I jumped back again, in shock.

"Ironhide'll love that," Red smirked.

Jazz kissed ferociously. Prowl kissed back. I can't move. Prowl, my Prowl, is…not giving up resistance. He's grabbing, moaning, completely devouring Jazz, but-but-how? He wasn't like that with me! Enthusiastic, yeah, but this is WAY beyond enthusiastic, beyond the token affection a label such as Wednesday Eight o'clock would muster. This is…a repaired relationship. My hope is destroyed, dust blown away by a puff of air current.

Perceptor, Perceptor, you demon, you unfit being, how could your return gesture possibly be seen as anything but malicious? My entire spark flared and collapsed with the intensity of a dying sun. Prowl rested his head on Jazz's shoulders and lifted the corners of his lips up into a soft curve of bliss.

Prowl is _smiling_. Why? Isn't what I did for him good enough? The mech he complained about actually gives him more pleasure than anything I ever did for him? Why was I used like a prop in their disharmonious acrimony, when I had been nothing but good to him? I can't turn away but I can't watch anymore, and when he moans loud enough to be heard by the other snidely giggling mech in the room, I can feel nothing but the realization that I'm expendable. Worthless.

There are moments in which something surprising does not. One such moment is when a set of hands that are not mine have gently enclosed around the bottom of my doorwings, squeezing with just enough pressure to send a tingling thrill up to my head, when a red helmet has leaned against me as best he could and silently pressed into me. The unspoken makes it even more unreal, a dirty secret that gives me shivers as he tenderly caresses the wings with an expert twist. His knees nudged my legs inward to completely encapsulate my body and all I have to do is lean back and sigh in surrender and I'd be his. Not Prowl's.

No. I pulled away and walked out, not even acknowledging him.

* * *

I've found a message on my answering device from Red Alert, sulkily informing me that Inferno's first shift starts at three am, tonight. I'd better be there. 

I collapsed at my desk and decide to wait for the world to end. The dull throb comes at me in waves as the humans outside continue their song in stops and starts.

"_**Staggering through the daytime, your image on my mind**__."_

I won't let them get to me. Not Prime, not Perceptor, not Red Alert, not Jazz.

"_**Passing so close beside you babe. Sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide, but-"**_

Nobody.

* * *

It's weird. I listen to Seaspray admit that he didn't want to leave his alt mode for a week after the breakup and I'm disgusted. When Perceptor admits that he buried himself in his work to avoid having to deal with the pain, and Ratchet shakes his head in disagreement, stating the oppposite, I'm annoyed. When Blaster comforts them with the reminder that denial is but one of the stages of mourning, I'm impatient. Yet, _yet_ when the ache that has lodged itself into my spark flares up in pain it doesn't seem as pathetic to me. It's _real_. I have real feelings, not the sap that flows from their whiny vocalizers. When Blaster asked me what I did the week after my break up, I retorted Nothing. 

"Right," he sneered indelicately.

I can't help but glare at him over this. "If you're going to make me feel stupid for my opinion then you can frag yourself."

This wasn't how I intended to say it, but I'm too late. Blaster's arms are closed, he's leaning back on his chair with his legs sticking out, and he's trying not to laugh at me. "Go ahead, say it."

I sighed in exasperation. "Ask Ratchet."

Ratchet spoke up, on cue. "You know, we pat ourselves on the back and cry on each others' shoulders and say we're brave-and we are. But why? They didn't die. They _dumped_ us. We were rejected, so we're not _allowed_ to grieve. If they died, then yeah, we _could_. But they didn't. We get a reminder **every functioning** moment that they don't want us, and won't again." None of them look like they are absorbing this. "So whatever pain we're feeling isn't justified, it just makes us sound like a bunch of whiny humans. You sound like losers." Blaster's response is noncommittal. "In fact, we're supposed to pretend that nothing happened, that everything's _fine_, while they get to be happy and we get marked as 'having a problem' because we're upset! It's not…not…"

"Fair?" Seaspray supplied.

"No, not 'fair,' not in the way you're thinking. 'Fair' is a subjective term. I'm mad because I'm not allowed to _be_ mad, even though it was something _worth_ being mad about, and I hate how _he_ can be happy but _I'm_ not allowed to even be _upset,_ because Primus help us if we _inconvenience _**anyone **around here, least of all while we're supposed to work. So what if I don't want to work? I just got DUMPED! And I'm MAD about it! It's not…" He still can't think of the word. "Why _can't_ we be mad about it?"

Blaster finally got up, walked over to him, leaned forward and touched his shoulder, fingers gently curling around the top in a comforting way. "You CAN." He motioned to the rest of us in the office. "You can be as slagged off as you want. Here." He gestured to the others. "With us."

"Hidden in an office with people I have nothing in common with. Thanks a lot," I interrupted sarcastically.

I thought they'd get mad, but instead the other three seemed to nod, as if they agreed that this was poor consolation. Blaster laughed.

"Know why Prime asked me to do this?"

"Did he promise you your own army of tapes, like Soundwave's?" I mocked.

Blaster looked startled. "No, but that's not a bad idea." He pulled away from Ratchet to let his concentration drift. "Not bad at all…"

I stood up to signal that I'm through here. "The hour's up," I declared, swinging the door open and jumping right in to a worse situation where Jazz is commending the new drummer's style. I don't give them a second look.

* * *

We've had no time to meet consistently, thanks to the Decepticons. They've been trying to pull off some kind of stunt or another for a solid three months straight, with no sign of a break. Optimus thinks that they're getting desperate. 

Blaster declared that today was MY day to talk about whatever I wanted, no commentary from him, until the end of the session. The others groaned. Blaster smiled encouragingly. I'll show him.

"What's with the Lambo libido?" I've leaned back in my chair, imitating Blaster's relaxed but sarcastic pose so that he can't use it. It's one of those tricks I learned about Autobot body language: mimic them and they get uncomfortable. Blaster squirmed, trying to find a pose the others hadn't already assumed.

"What do you mean?" Ratchet asked.

I've decided to rant about something stupid, to see how far I can go before someone calls me on it. "They're disgusting. Lustful. Dislusting!"

"Heh," Seaspray snorted. "You're right. It's nasty!"

"WHOA WHOA WHOA! What are you talking about?" Blaster demanded, losing his cool in record time. I didn't get very far. Maybe Red Alert's right, I'm not very good at this…

"I am as stymied as you, Blaster," announced Perceptor, giving me a look that clearly meant he hadn't misinterpreted the Master Communicator. I'm still mad at him.

"How can you be? You're the one who set me up!" I told them what Red did to me, but not what we were watching. Our group leader was not happy about this breach in Red's ethics, but he had already stated that whatever we said in here would be kept secret.

Seaspray made his underwater whistle noise, something that sounds comic at best and crazy at worst. "Wow. I didn't know Red was so grabby." He'd had a different experience with Sideswipe. That slagheap liked to punt mini-bots while his current fling watched and laughed over it, before they ran off to bump windshields. He cast an accusatory glance at Blaster, who actually looked sheepish.

Ratchet sighed over Sunstreaker's skidplate. We all took a moment to consider that. That thing was so tight, so fine, so shiny, so gorgeous, that Prime should frame its image all over the place. It would definitely be a morale-booster. "One of these days I'm gonna live dangerously and grab that thing," he announced. Perceptor frowned.

"What were you doing near Red Alert at that time? Did you see what you wanted to witness?"

I really hated him for bringing that up. "Yeah. I saw Jazz and Prowl. Thanks a lot."

"You sound irritated."

"No slag. What were you thinking? That I'd _like_ seeing that?"

"Seeing what? They are boring and silent and ignore each other."

"How do you know? They didn't ignore each other when I was there," I growled back. "The exact opposite."

Blaster prompted me to elucidate. Trying not to let the anger seep out, I walked them through the whole humiliating night.

Ratchet sat up straighter. "You watched them bump windshields? That's disgusting!"

"Dislusting," Perceptor corrected, amused. This was not what he'd expected me to see, but he was not apologetic.

I can't believe this! What should have been a moment to make Blaster squirm had dissolved into another chance to make fun of me. "It's not funny! How would you like it if you saw your ex with somebody else! And while you're reeling from the shock, Red Alert tries to-"

Seaspray laughed. He wasn't sorry about that; however, he could see why I'd be mad at Perceptor, though.

"I assumed that you were…_into_ that kind of thing," Perceptor protested.

"What kind of thing?" I asked.

Perceptor had wandered into a conversational corner and he can't get out. "Being familiar….with your patients." He sped up. "You were familiar with Prowl, and then me."

Oh. Right. I'd forgotten that. Now it was biting me on the tailpipe. "You were just irresistible."

Ratchet jumped up. "Wait, did you do it with him, too?"

"Too?" Seaspray asked.

Ratchet turned away, embarrassed. I saw my exit from the spotlight and milked it for all it was worth, working on getting him to confess. After we harassed him for a few moments, and he accused me of flirting with Perceptor, and I told him it was just a bluff, and somehow Seaspray told us all that he never liked me, and the fight that followed, and Blaster breaking it up and forcing us all to apologize, and me reminding them all that we wanted to hear what happened, and ANOTHER fight, Ratchet _finally_ confessed.

"I came into the lab to get Wheeljack when I saw _him-_" he jerked his head to Perceptor. "-drunk off of energon and crying like a mini-bot."

"Hey!" Seaspray objected.

Perceptor's optics didn't leave the floor. "I was following someone's advice."

"He was bawling his optics out, and sobbed to me that he'd never fall in love again if this was how bad it felt, and that he was sick of feeling like slag and if only there were a way to feel better. And then I…well…" Ratchet trailed off and decided to inspect the invisible spot on the floor that Perceptor couldn't tear his attention away from either.

"You couldn't resist him, could you?" I taunted. "Ratchet! That's dislusting!"

Ratchet let a repressed smile out. "He looks hot when he's miserable."

"I guess misery _does_ love company," Seaspray interjected, cracking us up.

* * *

After the meeting Blaster remained behind, watching everyone leave. They greeted Chip, who was tapping along on his keyboard, trying to practice something that didn't sound like the standard ABA music format. 

"_**Just a small town girl living in a lonely world…"**_

Blaster's here for a reason, but I'm not asking. He has a flair for drama that'll make him talk. He sat down on the chair that faces my desk and leaned back, propping his feet on the desk.

"So how do you think it's going?" he asked.

"What's going?" I demanded.

Blaster shook his head. "Man, you never pay attention to what's going on around here. How did you end up Autobot shrink?"

"I lost a bet," I snarled. I'm sick of everyone asking me. "How did you end up playing counselor to us?"

Blaster seemed glad I'd finally gotten around to questioning his abilities. "Prime asked me to do it because I'm you."

"You lost a bet, too?"

"No!" At last I got him to laugh. "I was somebody else's mech on the side. You know, his experiment."

"_**But the movie never ends it goes on and on and on and on…"**_

"I wasn't his experiment." He's not listening; he's smiling that same know-it-all expression Red Alert used. "I **wasn't**!"

"He didn't try you out? And when it didn't work, left you for the sure thing?" He stopped the examination of his finger joints to stare intently at me. "You're a gambling mech, Smokey. You know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. My mech decided to go with the one who loved him unconditionally, not the friend who might not work out."

I could deny it. I don't want to fight with him over this, though. You can't win an argument with Blaster. "What did you do?"

"Nothin' cool. I fell apart, man. Cried like a mini-bot and couldn't go near him without drama."

I had to laugh. "That's pathetic."

"Says the dude who watched his ex get it on."

Ouch. I shoved his feet off my desk in response. Blaster grinned back.

"Know what I did to get over him?"

"No, I don't. And I don't care."

"Yeah, you do." Blaster retorted. "You can't wait to get that weight off your spark."

"Fine. Whatever gets you out of here quicker. What did you do?"

"_**Don't stop, believin'. Hold on to that feeeeeelin'."**_

My counselor took the time to stick his head out the door. "Man, I HATE Journey. Chip! Can you take five for a sec?"

"Sure!"

He returned to his seat and shook his head, spreading his hands out to punctuate his point. "You don't get it, and you WON'T get it 'til you let go."

"Let go of what?"

"Him. Your idea of what it was. Your anger. You can't live 'til you forgive."

He sounded like Prime, and I inform him as such. He took it as a compliment.

"One day you'll figure out what's really good for you and do it, but I just thought you'd like to know that you're not the only one."

"Was it Tracks?" I asked.

Blaster laughed. "Not even close. Later."

I don't give him another thought, except that five energon cubes says it was Tracks, since those two earth-lovers are so obsessed with this planet they'd never want to leave.

* * *

The notice has assigned all of us on the 'patrol' roster who are NOT on patrol to take a certain evening to accomplish certain tasks for Jazz's production. Why? Because we're expendable, that's why; we're not doing anything that night, and those who are out taking turns looking for Laserbeak are busy, thus WE have been assigned to help Prime's other second-in-command with one of his banal distractions. 

"Primus on a pogo stick! Do I _look_ like an usher?" Gears is about to launch into a lengthy diatribe of how his axles will be out of whack if he has to do meaningless work instead of meandering around the world. I don't want to hear it.

"You look like Jazz's bitch," I caught myself replying. A few eavesdroppers chuckled and I think I've been around Blaster too long if I'm saying the first thing that I process.

Gears was in my face _quick_. "You wanna repeat that?"

I'd better save myself before he tries something. "I meant that we all are, for having to do this."

"No slag," Sunstreaker grunted, having been one who overheard my comment. "I thought our time off was ours." He shrugs unhappily, making the gesture more of a 'I'll do it unless I find a better use for my time, like blowing up Wheeljack's lab' expression than a 'oh well, I didn't have any other plans besides sorting my Barbie collection' look. "Guess not."

"How are you going to get out of it?" I followed him, eagerly. "I want in."

"Drive off," he countered, walking through his doorway and closing it in my face. I get the parting shot.

"You are one diabolical Lamborghini!"

I heard him laugh but he doesn't open up. "You're polluting my doorway! Move it!"

* * *

Like it or not, we amass the night of the concert to hear Jazz assign us jobs. He got a great idea from watching "Star Search," "The Gong Show" and "Popstars," deciding to run with it. Who wouldn't love to hear Autobots critique music? Anyone who knew the judges. 

"Prowl, Bumblebee, and Blaster will sit HERE," he emphasized stage left (our right) "and the bands will come in upstage right and leave DOWNstage right." He ran over to where Powerglide et al were standing. "Mini-bots, I need you to help set up the bands. Smokey here'll work the backstage, so Powerglide, you need to radio him and tell him when bands are ready to go on. I'm alternating solo acts with instrumental bands so that we can set up/take down, but I need ya to be runnin' on all cylinders. Hound! I wanna go over special effects with you!"

I didn't see Sunstreaker in this mess. Among the minibots and sulking cars and one VERY unhappy Skydive I did not see the mischievous glint of yellow I'd hoped would be causing trouble.

"He got out of it by trading with ME," Powerglide explained.

"That's not fair! What did he do, offer to be in an oil bath with you and Jazz?"

The mini-bots giggled.

"That's dislusting!" Seaspray called.

"Hey! Guys! I've got the playlist here! Come see what's going down!" Jazz called.

We walked over to Hound's holographic projections. "Heidi, Beth, and Wendy are first, then the curtain'll go up for Uncivil Service. Michelle's doing the next song with pre-recorded music. That'll give you three and half minutes to take down-without making noise-and then Prowl and co will be talkin' so you gotta set up Spike's band-"

I was tuning him out when he passed me and paused his speech for a millisecond to speak at a lesser volume before going back to the playlist.

"(I heard you)– Matt and Jenni will be up front, then Spike's band plays-"

Slag. Sure enough, before I left, I was informed that I had been reduced to curtain puller.

"Powerglide'll radio you and tell you when to pull this rope. Drop it when he says so."

"What happened to me doing Backstage?" I demanded, trying not to get annoyed.

Jazz didn't even turn around. "Can't talk! Gotta heat up the oil bath!"

That slagger.

* * *

So in the dark smelly mass of human productions I hide, waiting for Powerglide to radio me to tell me when to lift the curtain. Half the time he didn't, but since I'm following the show I know what's going on, especially since I'm downstage right and able to see everything that's going on. Plus I can stare at Prowl all I want. He won't meet my optics, but I see him all the same. He's a harsh judge. 

"That was flat and uninspiring," he informed a trio of teenagers. They sang "Set Me Free" unconvincingly, apparently.

Bumblebee liked it. Blaster told them that he enjoyed the selection. They got a score of 19 out of 30. Jazz came out from the judge's side and inserted some random commentary that made the audience laugh.

Things got interesting when Spike's band was at 75 percent capacity and there's no sign of their constantly tardy drummer. They've asked to be pushed back, but Jazz is adamant about keeping the playlist the way it is, for the mini-bots' sanity. For once I agreed.

Which brings us to the scene before me. Three people in black tee shirts and blue jeans pace/watch, intermittently paging Brawn to ask if he's seen the drummer yet and getting a negative answer. The stage light fell on Spike every time he got too close to the stage, seen by the audience. He's paced so much he's worn the floor down. Carly's no better. She can't keep her vocalizer inert, trying to get someone to believe her when she says she has no idea what's taking him so long. Chip just watches the act.

"Setup done," Powerglide radioed in.

"You guys are on in four minutes," I informed them. They groan as if this is bad news.

A short, tiny girl and a tall gangly male are in front of the microphone, trying to harmonize.

"_**Go lightly from the ledge, babe, land lightly on the ground. I'm not the one you want, babe. I'll only let you down. You say you're looking for someone who'll promise never to part. Someone to close his eyes for you, someone to close his heart. **_

The female brings in her soprano to back him up. _**"Someone to die for you and more…"**_

Carly's trying not to panic, telling Chip and Spike that he'll be here soon.

"We've called him-"

"_**NO NO NO!"** _shouted the crowd along with the singers. They're really getting into this.

"Nice song," Chip murmured. "Johnny and June."

Carly has lost all fear of offending Chip. "Will you FOCUS?! We're on NEXT and we don't have a drummer!"

"Yes, you do," I interjected. All three heads twisted up and exhibited various degrees of disbelief.

"We can't use you!"

"I would think in an emergency you could." I want to do this. I want to do this so bad I can practically feel the desire. They exchanged uneasy glances. "I don't care if I'm not allowed!" Still no positive response. "C'mon!"

"_**You say you're looking for someone to pick you up each time you fall. To gather flowers constantly, and to come each time you call, and will love you for your life and nothing more, well it ain't me babe-"**_

"**NO NO NO!"**

Carly shrugged. "We're out of time. We **have** to."

The judges were speaking. I can't hear Prowl over all of the angry whispers around me, but he must have pleased the audience because they're cheering. Bumblebee and Blaster say sweet things.

Jazz allowed for longer applause and motioned for me to raise the curtain that would reveal Spike's band behind it. He noticed the scuffling behind him and frowned. Spike hurried behind the curtain and hissed "**STALL them!"**

Jazz told a joke none of the bandmates heard but caused laughter.

I can barely stand the excitement. I get to play the drums again. I get to play the drums again. This couldn't be better-

"Outta my spot, Mr. Roboto!"

The new guy has finally swaggered in, ignoring Chip and Spike's snarls. He sat down after I slowly got up and walked over to the curtain. I can't face anyone…but I nodded to Jazz's questioning stare.

"And now…appearing from (chuckle) parts unknown…Spike and The Mechanics!"

The drummer beats so hard and fast and angry it sounds like a metal band beat, accented by Chip's still unabated venom from the drummer's tardiness.

There's nothing left of the song I thought I related to; it's dead. Snippets like **'**_**sometimes the feelings are so hard to hide'**_ and** '**_**there's another before me, you'll never be mine'**_ are pointless.

I glance at Prowl, who's taking notes and frowning. He doesn't get it. Neither did these kids. Stupid stupid, kids. I feel like kicking something.

The audience gives its applause in starts and stops. It's time for the judges' assessments, starting with Prowl.

"A very raucous tune, with resentful lyrics and a beat too fast for the rest of the band's abilities," he declared. "It merits a four."

"Boo!" the audience replies.

Bumblebee laughs. "Actually, I kind of liked the updated version. I give it an eight."

Blaster shook his head. "Man, you guys let your drummer carry you away. It took the sting out of the song. I give it a five."

"Awwww!"

The band loped out, pretending they didn't care. Chip fumed. Carly walked out with the drummer. Nobody talked to me, nobody conferred with me, only Spike met my optics and shook his head indignantly. I lowered the curtain and four men came out.

"_**A little bit of soap-"**_ the next band began, singing a catchy doo-wop tune. I can't hear them.

* * *

Some blond girl belted out "Son of a Preacher Man" to earn a perfect 30. Grimlock, in his Tyrannosaurus mode, glanced at his fellow Dinobots as they waited offstage. 

"Us Dinobots better," he proclaimed.

"You're on next," I replied. I haven't felt very friendly to anyone today. They trundled out before I can stop them.

Jazz looked up in time to avoid Sludge's tail. "Whoa!" he cried, leaping out of the way. The audience cracked up. "Technical difficulties," he explained, not giving me a dirty look but a glance all the same. "I guess I don't have to keep you in suspense. Ladies and Gentlemen…the Dinobots!"

Sludge, Snarl, Slag, Grimlock, and Swoop transformed into their mech modes, all five wearing Beatle wigs. Ringo's drumbeat started up and they stood in a line, arms moving perfectly in sync.

"_**She loves you yeah yeah yeah!"**_

Jazz stood next to me without saying much, smiling to himself. I felt the need to say something.

"I told them not to go out. They went anyway."

"_**She said you hurt her so, she almost lost her mind. Now she says she knows. You're not the hurting kind. Because she loves you-"**_

Jazz nodded. "The Dinobots listen to the Dinobots. It's cool."

"Oh." I thought he'd yell at me about it. Turns out what little I knew.

"_**Yeah yeah yeah yeah!"**_

The audience cheered wildly, hooting and hollering like humans do. Jazz came out to halt the Dinobot exodus.

"Thanks guys, but the judges haven't gotten to speak yet! Starting with our main machine, Blaster!"

"I loved the song and dance, man. I give it a six." People applauded.

Bumblebee was enthusiastic and gave his usual score of eight.

The last judge did not even attempt to look pleasant. "That performance merited a two."

"BOOOOOOOO!"

Prowl remained resolute, continuing his leveled stare. "I do not care for the Beatles," he announced. "They are formulaic at best and reliant upon gimmicks at their worst. Just like your performance."

Grimlock snarled, ripped the wig from his head and hurled it at the judges with all of his might. Prowl caught the wig and held it up, giving Grimlock a look he reserved for those times he had to tolerate nonsense now but the moment they got back to the Ark…

Jazz was calming the crowd down. "It's okay. Shh! They still did fine! Okay. Shh! Our last group needs no introduction, what with the constant fights, the rumors, and the scandal on The Ed Sullivan Show." He snickered at his own wit. "Ladies and Gentlemen…The Doors!"

The guitar blasted and another band began their song. "_**What was that promise that you made?"**_

Carly sighed. "They're good."

I was transfixed. The humans in this group looked odd. Chip declared them 'fantastic.'

"_**I'm gonna love you, 'til the stars fall from the sky. For you and I!"**_

Spike shrugged. "At least we beat the Dinobots."

* * *

Blaster called our "let's talk outside" meeting to a close early after we realized that Laserbeak was laughing at us. _He_ claimed it was to celebrate Megatron taking a break after six months of non-stop attacks, but I've heard that bird laugh before, and this was definitely a moment at our expense. We all went our separate ways as fast as the wind could take us. 

These group sessions for me weren't going down any smoother than they had in the beginning. They were like bad energon: bitter, painful, and although someone claims it's good for me, by the time I see the results it'll be too late to do anything about it if it wasn't good. As I walked down the hallway, back to my office, I watched the activity around me like the sand the wind picked up and tossed around the Ark. There were Autobots working, arguing, hiding in their rooms, wandering like I was but in pairs or groups, or if I peaked around corners I could see the Dinobots in their rumpus room practicing their next big act (Weird Al's "Eat It") or Spike versus his new drummer and Carly.

"I'll play or I won't!" Spike shouted at the pair. "Just tell me what you want me to play and I'll play it!"

"You're not listening to me!" the drummer countered, fists ready to go. He reminded me of Cliffjumper.

A mediator could, no, _should_, interfere, but-

"I heard what you said the first twelve times you said it, and it still doesn't make sense! Do you want the B flat to G minor or the G minor to B flat? One or the other. It's not fucking rocket science!"

Somewhere Megatron is trying to take over the Universe. Elita-1 plans another insurgence. Ultra Magnus pines away for an opportunity to come above ground without having to shoot through an army. Optimus Prime has the burden hardest to bear. I have to break up a human spat.

"Hey!" I cried, arms out to keep the two from fisticuffs. "Wait a minute! What's the problem?"

"Nothing!" the drummer snapped.

"He's a total prick!" Spike replied.

Carly pulled herself away from Spike to the drummer's side. "They're fighting over who's got the biggest-"

"SHUT UP!" they yelled back.

"I have NO idea what you're talking about," I interrupted as the two go around my hands and start a fight. "But what does it have to do with music?"

"He's a drummer who thinks he knows how to play the guitar!" Spike retorted.

"Even a drummer knows how to play this song!" the drummer snarled.

Humans are convolutedly wired to the point where figuring out how they operate is an exercise in futility. Instead I grabbed the drummer and hauled him away as he yelled at Carly to hurry up follow, because he was NOBODY'S sloppy seconds.

"Who are you, anyway?" I demanded.

"Getcher fuckin' hands off of me!"

We were outside, where Mr. No-name was unceremoniously dumped to the ground. "When Spike's ready to let you back in here you can come back."

"Fuck him!" the youth yelled defiantly, pulling on his helmet while straddling his bicycle. Carly ran out at that moment, in tears, in pursuant after the drummer.

"Pete, wait!" she cried, hand outstretched.

He gunned the engine and pulled away without a reply. Carly remained, crushed.

"If he treated you that poorly he wasn't worth your time," I told her.

She sniffled. "I just told Spike off!"

Humans. "Give both of them some time to let their anger go. Once they've had time to be mad they'll listen to you."

She wasn't paying attention. She loped over to her car, saying good-bye to me with a last-minute wave.

This all made me tired. Apparently, nobody has any idea how to relate to anyone. In these moments the endless horizon of loneliness that is existence stretches out in front of me when the realization hits me that we're created alone and we will die alone. But that's just depressing.

I walk past the same things I've passed already, with minor changes. The Dinobots have stopped. The Lamborghini brothers (and Sunstreaker's skidplate) have disappeared. Spike sits alone and picks at his guitar. It's a haunting melody; forlorn, introspective, pressing on me like dark on a sunset.

"_**All around me I see what weakness has made. Too much tomorrow I think I'll take all today. Am I a poison, am I a thorn in your side, am I a picture perfect subject tonight?**_ Hey, Smokescreen?"

Time to brace myself for the lecture about meddling in with his business. "Yeah?"

He leaned into the neck of the guitar to tune one of the strings. "Somebody's in your office."

"Who?" I was right by the door, anyway, so the question was pointless. Spike ignored me and started to sing again.

"_**I don't need nobody. I don't need the weight of words to find a way to crash on thru…"**_

* * *

Time stands still. I've seen it happen only once but it happened. The day I had to wait for Prowl to walk into the chambers I'd opened up for him, only to be rejected: from the moment I had to throw him out of my life to the moment he looked at me with a helpless expression, as if to beg me to reconsider-which he would never do since he had no concept of abasement-were the longest seconds of my life. It was as though nothing happened for an eternity. When I replay that moment in my mind there's no drama, only the recollection of circuit-numbing pain. It seared into me for the barest of seconds before the anger took over. He nodded to acknowledge me. 

"_**I**__** don't need nobody. I just need to learn the depth or doubt of faith to fall into.**_**"**

The door will remain open, if only to keep me connected with the real world, this bizarre parallel universe where we don't live on Cybertron.

"How may I help you?" I asked him, trying to feign a sincere smile.

"Jazz does not know that I am here," he replied.

I can't really say much about that, so I don't. I sat down and tried to be a professional as if it's not too late, but I should have been professional all along and this wouldn't have happened.

I look at him and I want him. It's that simple. All he has to do is smile at me and I'd probably be content to walk behind him like the trailer behind Prime until I'm nonfunctional.

"There is no easy way to say this."

"Well, just use whatever words come to mind," I assured in my Pleasant Therapist voice.

He ridged his optic brow, puzzled. Maybe it's an act, since he can predict anything. He tried to look pleasant and it breaks me in two. "I made a mistake."

I can't meet my optics to him. "We both made mistakes."

"_**Here I slumber to awaken my daze. I find convenience in this savior I save. Am I a prison, Am I a source of dire news? Am I a picture perfect reason for you**_**?"**

He's not looking at me, he's looking through me. Where did I go? "I was the one who told Jazz to find Spike another drummer."

"What?" He's apologizing for the wrong thing. He's…not…sorry…for…

"You were chasing away your patients to play the drums, and it was not conducive to the Autobot cause, so I asked Jazz to find a replacement, even though I knew how much you loved it."

I hated myself for feeling like this. "You have no idea," I murmured, not catching myself in time.

Spike sang louder. **"**_**In this time of substitute, it's my needs I've answered to…all the while**_**."**

"I was vacillating between the needs of all and yours…and had to decide what was beneficial for all parties involved." He has not stirred from his stiff posture. It was as though he'd been kidnapped by Megatron and forced to talk.

"The needs of the few outweigh the needs of the one," he concluded.

We'd seen that movie together, when there'd been nothing better to do that night and he needed to concentrate on something other than the pain in his spark from being separated from Jazz.

"I thought you liked Bones the best," I replied, still in a daze. He's not sorry at _all._

"_**And the hope that I invest, still turns to signals of distress…all the while**_**."**

"No." After a couple of moments of silent staring, he finally decided to speak again, "That was all I wanted to say to you."

He won't be sorry about what he did, and if I were honest with myself, I should acknowledge that he never was. I'm the only one really agonizing over this, and if I don't stop, I'll never be happy again. Blaster, you were so right, and now I have to do something that hurts so bad my optics flicker off for a millisecond.

"I forgive you."

I don't think that was what he expected. He asked me to repeat myself.

"_**You're all I need!" **_How can Spike sing at a moment like this?

My vocalizer wobbled and shorted but the emotion and meaning are in the words. "Prowl, I forgive you." It flows out of me, torrential like lava. "It's over. Done. Don't worry about it."

"_**Now I cry my soul to sleep**_."

For a moment I thought he'd ask me to explain myself. He did not. Instead his face breaks into a smile of relief and gratitude and he thanks me, letting himself out. I watched the door close.

I ran to the door, swung it open, and took about two steps out before I stop. No. No more. Let it go. Prowl continued to walk away, not looking back at the commotion behind him. Just let it go.

Spike is still singing the song, although I don't hear it the same way I did before. As I sit down next to him he lets it slowly ooze into silence, until he's just plucking the guitar as we both stare at my office door, the rejects of society we are.

"That's beautiful," I commented after awhile.

Spike grunted. "Collective Soul. They played a concert here last week."

"Collective Soul…" 'Soul' must be a play on words meaning both part of their noncorporal forms and a form of music. The human's English had double meanings for almost all of their nouns and verbs, which is why it's so hard to learn. It's also easier to take over the world when you can speak in code, as the English and the Americans have proven.

Spike acknowledged that Carly would be back. She'd see through Pete's complete lack of talent. "Besides, he hates you guys. He called Prime Mr. Roboto."

He called all of us that. Spike is right, Carly can't stay away. She may be able to dump Spike with the reckless abandon of a teenager but letting go of her beloved Autobots would be impossible. I could relate.

"So what'll happen to the band?"

Spike sighed. "We weren't going anywhere. Besides, Red Alert told me that Laserbeak sent a note saying if we didn't stop playing he'd shoot our stuff to scrap."

I couldn't help but laugh at that.

We sat in a self-serving silence for a few minutes, Spike thinking about his ruined band and me letting excruciating reality sink its teeth into my already bruised spark.

"You know, some things just aren't meant to happen."

I nodded comfortingly. "You have talent. You'll get another band. Or be all right on your own."

He tunes the A string as he grunts. "I'm a lousy guitar player, Smokescreen. Nothing's going to change that but practice. And lessons. Its over. No big deal."

The sigh came out of me before I could stop it. "No matter how good it was when you had it, it always ends before you're ready."

"No," Spike objected heartlessly, "I didn't like them to begin with. We didn't fit together and it was something to pass the time. I'm kind of glad they left. I was sick of putting up with all their shit."

I don't have an answer for that.

He's strumming again, a pattern somewhat familiar, but it's so much slower this time.

"You know, I can hear through the door all the stuff that happens in your office."

"I know." In a way, I did.

"I was there for the showdown Jazz and Prowl had awhile ago."

Everyone's against me today, I swear.

"Sing with me. _**The sound of your footsteps**__…"_ instead of the desperate, resentful growl Chip had taken, Spike chose a mournful cry of misery. It tears at me.

"Spike, I can't." I couldn't bring myself to vocally announce my heartbreak. "I never want to hear that song again."

"Come to think of it, neither do I. Try this one: _**"Go away from my window. Leave at your own chosen speed. I'm not the one you want, babe. I'm not the one you need. You say you're looking for someone who's never weak, but always strong. To protect you and defend you, whether you are right or wrong. Someone to open each and every door..."**_

The group after him at the concert. I remember. "_**But **__**it ain't me, babe."**_

We yelled at the top of our vocalizers. _"__**NO NO NO! It ain't me, babe. It's ain't me you're looking, for, **_**babe**." I never knew a term of endearment could be so sarcastic. It helped me cast aside the ache within and we sang it over and over and over again until his fingers hurt.

* * *

Megatron tried. Megatron yelled. Megatron shot Starscream. The power converter designed to harness the static electricity of thunderstorms still fell to the ground with a comical _thud,_ thanks to the Aerialbots. 

It's strange to watch Prowl calmly give orders while Jazz calmly ignores them. Prime praisies them both when their actions work, gives his disappointed look when they don't. I'm needed to talk down Bluestreak, who froze up and couldn't shoot the power converter. I'd freeze up if Devastator was about to crush me, too, and say as much.

The only way to get him to come online is to lean over and whisper in his audios "Sunstreaker just beat Ironhide at Mortal Kombat."

The optics lit up and the head turned in my direction. "No way! How?"

A shock for a shock. I guess I still have it. I just need practice.

* * *

Blaster disbanded the group. He claimed that every band has to break up sooner or later, and besides, I seem okay and I can go back to seeing my patients one-on-one. 

"How do you know I'm not acting?" I asked.

Blaster smiled. "You didn't fall apart when Prowl got shot yesterday."

"He did?" I hadn't noticed.

"No, he didn't. But you didn't spazz out when I said that. You're gonna be fine."

* * *

It's quiet in here again. That won't be for long; Silverbolt's coming in to talk about decreasing his acrophobia. I figure some desensitization techniques should help, as well as some cognitive therapy. It might be fun. 

I hate the quiet, and I'm not going to sit here and wait for the fate I'd fought so hard to get rid of return like a bad oil stain. I got up and opened the door, looking around for some kind of sign.

Sunstreaker's ambling by in that 'I don't want to go where I'm headed' pace, ignoring me and anyone else around him, by the looks of it. It's hard to tell, there's nobody else around. This is a low-traffic area. He slowed down to a crawl when he saw me.

"I heard you're the mech to talk to when you need to trade a patrol. Can you do Tuesday morning?"

"Sure," I reply. "I want a cube of high-grade."

"No problem." Transaction complete, he turned around. "Later."

Live dangerously. Those who aren't risking their lives for someone else like to say that. I see his skidplate, that piece of perfection that we fantasized about once upon a time. The way the light reflects off it, the gentle sway as it leaves me…so small. So _tight_.

Sunstreaker whirled around and threw me against the wall so fast I couldn't have timed it. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" he bellowed.

"Sorry," I replied, trying to catch my balance. He knocked me off my _equilibrium_. "It's just that…it's so gorgeous."

He pulled back and simpered. "No slag. Next time, ask nice."

"There's a next time?"

Sunatreaker walked away. "Only if I can play with your doorwings."

How dislusting. I followed, not knowing what else to say. "I'm booked until Wednesday. Eight-ish. How about I-"

"I'm busy," he replied, in that sing-song voice the over-popular use. "I'll call you."

Yeah, right. We'll see. But I have something to look forward to. Hope doesn't stay as dead as I thought. That alone was worth grabbing his skidplate for.

We'll see, indeed.


	26. Top That

They'd done their dance routine, complete with covertly inserted stunt (the Michigan Athletic Association would have a _shit fit_ if they knew they'd done that; the statutory age was 14), and done their cheer ending in the splits. Now the cheerleaders were clumping together, jumping and hooting and hollering as cheerleaders do, almost on top of each other in orgiastic glee. Mr. Downy had the microphone and was ready to conclude his part in the pep rally by making a quick speech about the greatness that was Smith Middle School and how he hoped to see everyone at the basketball game against Boulan – seventh grade at three-thirty, eighth grade at five. They might actually WIN this one. Mr. Downy turned back to the flock of young adolescents trying to regroup. 

"Cheerleaders! Go ahead!" he called.

The girls were too young to grasp the historical and cultural significance of pep rallies, or what it meant to be a cheerleader. They did not know that this was a mostly American phenomenon; nor did they care. They had a basketball game after school, and the moment they concluded their cheer their masses would be dismissed to go to their lockers and load up their backpacks before either trundling home or running off to practice/the game/various clubs. Already the buses had arrived.

Brie Morgan gave the signal to begin. Their black and yellow striped skirts and tops ("We look like bumblebees!") whirled as they turned to the two sides of the gymnasium to address both sets of bleachers.

"K-N-I-G-H-T-S!" They chanted the requisite three times. Again, they were defying state law and hoisting each other up – but not high enough for it to matter. High school cheerleaders did lifts and stunts OVER their heads. The middle school girls were merely letting a lighter teammate jump on their backs.

"SMITH KNIGHTS SMITH KNIGHTS, DON'T BE SHY! STAND RIGHT UP AND YELL YOUR CRY!"

Immediately, the teachers and students rose up from their hard plastic seats and pumped their fists in the air, if only for the relief of getting to stand after a long half-hour of boring CRAP.

"V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!" they screamed back.

"THAT'S THE SMITH KNIGHT'S BATTLE CRY!" Lynee Wiersinski, perfect blonde hair bouncing in perfect blond curls, did a high jump off of the anchor and began bouncing up and down with her teammates to make the crowd's enthusiasm grow. "What's that spell!"

"VICTORY!" yelled the crowd, returning volley for volley.

"LOUDER!"

"**VICTORY!"**

"LOUDER!"

"_**VICTO-"**_

BOOM!

* * *

Ramjet had managed to pitch himself headlong into a building, instead of blowing up completely. He stood up, shook himself, glanced at the bright yellow buses that were either knocked sideways from the blow or shaking, decided they looked more like foe than friend, and proceeded to shoot them to pieces. 

"Pickin' on a poor little school, eh?" Powerglide swooped down and transformed, aimed his gun, and missed completely. He shot a hole in the large part of the building, where he heard screams. A moment later, a few faces peeked out. "Humans!" he exclaimed, annoyed. They always complicated everything! "Hey Ramjet! Race you to that cloud!"

Ramjet knew a poor distraction attempt when he saw it. "I think I'll stay here with these humans!" he called, as though he were refusing second helpings of energon.

"Hey Fireflight! I need some help!"

The Aerialbots spent a great deal of time ignoring Powerglide. He wasn't a part of their team and he never would be, as long as they had something to say about it. He wasn't even a real plane, as far as they were concerned. Fireflight claimed to be 'busy.' At a few thousand feet he seemed to be staring off into the distance, if a nosecone could do that.

Silverbolt swooped down and tried to block the Decepticons from the humans who had decided to evacuate any way possible, their favorite route being the large hole Powerglide had created. With so many of them streaming out, it was difficult to make a move, hampering both Autobots as Ramjet decided at the worst possible moment to try clog dancing.

"Help me grab him!" Silverbolt ordered, lunging forward to tackle the Decepticon. Ramjet leapt in the air and received an audio transmission from Starscream announcing that they had captured what they wanted and for the remainder of the troops retreat.

"Later, losers!" Ramjet called, transforming as Thrust gave a very rude gesture in passing.

The remaining Autobots landed to make sure the humans were all right, radioing Prowl to give an update.

* * *

Decepticon victories were celebrated over large servings of energon. When they had to retreat it was a scant ration dispensed by the surliest Starscream. Thanks to the Coneheads providing a distraction that kept Superion busy, Dirge was able to sit down next to Ramjet with his full cube in their favorite hiding place. 

"The only thing better would be a day off," he sighed, taking a deep draught.

"Day off with pay," Ramjet countered. All three smiled at the others in their circle. Top That was a favorite game of the Decepticons. No one else was in this room, meaning that they could get both slanderous and dirty. The first round was usually the weakest, though.

"Year off with pay," Thrust intoned. He had to start the next round. "Beating up Soundwave."

"Beating up Soundwave AND his tapes," Dirge responded, drinking more. He was behind the other two, who were half finished.

Ramjet laughed, moving a little closer to them in case they got too loud. "Making Soundwave's tapes TORTURE him."

"Huh." They were unimpressed, most of all Thrust.

Ramjet decided to try harder. "No Autobots."

"No Auto-that is lame! Get on with the good ones!" Thrust had no energon left in his cube, and it was obvious. He was trying to take Dirge's and only getting a mild swatting, which for some reason encouraged him to try other modes of attack. Ramjet hoped that this would end in an interesting way. Dirge was only moderately involved in warding off the blue jet before him. So far, so good.

"Hm..." Ramjet's optics glowed with inspiration. "In Megatron's throne room."

THAT had their attention. And their imaginations. No one had to ask WHAT was going on in that particular location...it had been a long time since they'd had time to themselves and all three were overdue. Thrust broke away from Dirge playing with his wings to lean in even closer and hiss his own contribution, out-of-turn but who cared?

"In Megatron's throne room...in front of Megatron…_chained down_."

"You or him?" Ramjet asked as Dirge gave a mix of moan/laugh at the idea.

"Him, moron. I got it: In Megatron's throne room, Megatron chained down, behead him after." Thrust liked to give a vainglorious leer that cast him in a _very_ desirable light; it triggered a surge of cool craving that prompted the white Decepticon to tackle the dark red mech in appreciation. Dirge leaned back on his hands and enjoyed the sight before taking the controls and starting another round.

"Mid-air."

Thrust paused from biting Ramjet's fingers to turn to the other Decepticon with a sneer. "Easy," he snorted. "Mid-air, during a thunderstorm." Ramjet pulled him back and forced his mouth open with his glossa. Dirge took the last drink of his cube, impatiently waiting for them to finish.

"Mid-air (mmm), during a thunderstorm (ouch), Autobot corpses below us."

Dirge made a face. "You did that last time."

"So did you. Get over here."

He didn't have to be told twice. He took over Ramjet's ministrations to Thrust, enjoying the little noises he made while doing his part to reciprocate the gratification. Ramjet noticed that the energon was gone and he had nothing better to do than to make his compatriots aroused with ideas that had not entered their processors yet but needed to be placed there.

"Covered in energon."

Thrust moaned loudly. "If you're not here in a nano-second-"

Ramjet plunged in between them head first. It was his favorite move, one he considered trademark. "Your turn."

"Hehe. Covered in energon and the Constructicons have to suck it off."

That was a motivator like no other. Hands and legs and wings tangled up while any attempts to be silent were forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Dirge could barely conceal his triumph. "Covered in energon, the Constructicons have to suck it off, and STARSCREAM has to clean it all up after."

Thrust completely forgot himself and cried out at that. "Make him watch, too!"

Ramjet cracked up, which was more of a distraction than an asset. Thrust had to rack his processor for a good one. What would blow their processors out of the air, rendering him victorious?

Boom.

"Optimus Prime," he declared, enunciating every syllable.

Ramjet and Dirge stopped what they were doing to stare, which made Thrust think that maybe he'd crossed a line-

"Optimus Prime dead," Ramjet shot back.

"Optimus Prime DYING," Dirge shouted, pulling on Ramjet's shoulders to lean in better in his excitement.

"Oooh." The other two said, facing him with a newfound respect.

"You can get in the middle of us," Thrust invited. That was WORTH it. They dissolved into a passionate triumvirate of moaning, gasping, clawing Coneheads that were each trying to outdo the other and enjoying each moment of it.

"Reflector is MUCH better," an unwelcome voice announced. Slag.

Standing over the pile of Conehead was Spectro, Viewfinder, and Spyglass, arms crossed and triple smug grins evident. Ramjet let out a sigh of exasperation. Trumped again. Dirge and Thrust separated reluctantly to better face their blackmailers and formulate a strategy.

"I had Spectro last time," Dirge muttered. "He hated me."

"I'll take him," said Thrust, not moving from his spot.

"Viewfinder!" Ramjet called, beckoning the least annoying of the three over.

Like a pile of middle school cheerleaders, six Decepticons joined together and tried to Top That.


	27. Wrongly Amused

Dedicated to Chaotic Serenity.

* * *

His processors were overfiring to the point where there was nothing left to do but go insane. Or go bowling. Either way, something was going to get bashed. 

There were several ways to let off some steam, but Optimus Prime's favorite had to be to go into the gymnasium and practice his fighting techniques. Often whatever unused skill he had not employed in awhile was utilized as one imaginary Decepticon after another fell at a twist of his shoulders. Feint, move, dodge, roll, push, run, no quarterback could match his agility; no lineman his strength.

"Wow," someone whistled behind him.

Optimus knew that if he turned around from his crouched position he would see Hot Rod's appreciative ogle. Far from being flustered, he realigned his sights to the grinning young mech and immediately attacked.

Hot Rod tolerated the pushing for less than a nanosecond before countering with a causal flip over his spoiler, which Prime reacted to by landing on his feet and crouching down, knocking Hot Rod's feet out from under him and leaping onto him.

"Your mentor was inadequate," Optimus announced grimly, pinning the red mech 's wrists down without much effort.

Hot Rod tipped his head back and basked in the feel of his leader's touch, allowing a small smile to play on his lips as blue fingers scraped against his arms to find a place on the floor to assist Prime in getting up. Hot Rod watched him ascend with the enthusiasm of a sleeping child losing his blanket.

Prime paused mid-stand. Hot Rod had a strange expression on his face, as though he were a giant smiley face on a button. Without warning, Hot Rod reached for Prime's massive red shoulders and pulled him back down, rolled Optimus onto his back and reached down to remove his battle mask.

Optimus' hand shot up to counter the attack, crushing silver fingers. "That is not removable."

With an expert toss of his hands, the young mech proved otherwise. "Yes it is!" He did not kiss him, though, preferring to nuzzle the blue antenna. Optimus remained immobile. He would be slagged before he gave Hot Rod the satisfaction of know that this was pleasing him.

After a few lingering touches Hot Rod's optics darkened. "You're holding out on me, _Prime,_" he hissed, using his knees to widen the gap between Optimus' legs to allow the one on top to sink a little closer.

"You were not invited to join me."

Hot Rod worked his fingers to trace the windows on the larger mech's chestplate and waited for the inevitable crumbling of Optimus' reserve. He worked down to the grillwork, weaving around in a triangular pattern away from the center and back around.

Optimus took a deep air intake to cool off the circuit systems that were warming up and swayed his body to move away, Hot Rod trailing after him.

"Come back, you can be on top," he teased, patting Optimus on the retreating leg.

Prime stopped, rotated, scooped down and swept Hot Rod into his arms, plunging his glossa into the surprised mouth that rapidly accepted these advances.

Hot Rod didn't melt, he didn't swoon. The dark-red mech preferred to push back, engaging in a reverse tug-of-war with Optimus. His hands grazed Prime's antenna again, eliciting a favorable reaction.

"I don't know who taught you how to do this, but they had talent," he growled fiercely. "Unlike your fighting techniques."

Hot Rod could barely contain himself. He laughed out loud. "I got it from Ultra Magnus." He brightened at an idea. "I'm going to go get him."

Prime scrabbled at the orange spoiler to hinder him. "We're not done yet," he protested.

Hot Rod didn't acknowledge. Just like him to be easily distracted by the thought of a more worthy cause. "I know that. Just hold on a second, I'll go get him."

Prime felt the need to contest this declaration. "He won't want to be with us!" What was the meaning of this? Hot Rod's desire for a third had no antecedence!

The younger car was unrelenting. He'd be right back, he promised.

As he knelt on the gymnasium floor Optimus second- and third-guessed himself. Why was he trifling with a mech so much younger than he, one that was inappropriate in a million different ways? If only Hot Rod didn't give that saucy wink that made him feel like the most wonderful thing to come out of Cybertron since Vector Sigma. Optimus shifted to a standing position uncomfortably. he should have never told his secret wish, because now that he had, Hot Rod was far too gung-ho in fulfilling it. He probably would accomplish his task, too. Hot Rod just had this remarkable aura about him, as though he were pure essence of perfection and all Prime had to do was _reach_ for that perfection and it belonged to HIM. But if he had to wait any longer he was leaving.

BANG.

The door flung open and Hot Rod entered, spoiler-first, face attached to someone who must be Ultra Magnus. Prime felt his spark flare up with aggressive longing at the sight. He had wanted to corner Ultra Magnus for the longest time, if only to place his hands around his neck and use his thumbs to pry his head off. So many conflicting emotions raged, roaring and foaming like a wrathful sea that almost drowned out Hot Rod ordering the newest addition to 'go greet your new master.'

"Reiterate!" Optimus ordered, sinking as Ultra Magnus' lips hungrily fastened to his. Hot Rod loomed over the kneeling mechs and made that winking motion.

"He gets off on obeying orders," the red mech explained. "Go ahead, tell him to do something."

Optimus tried to think of any of the numerous desires he wished Ultra Magnus to fulfill and there were far too many to choose one.

Hot Rod laughed out loud again at the silent reaction. "Hey Magnus. Do that thing with your fingers I like. See if HE likes it."

Optimus wasn't certain that he liked the sound of that, until he felt the fingers slipping down down _down_ to Optimus' waist to send bolts of electricity through the joints, where circuits received a shock that made his legs go weak and forced him to collapse altogether. Ultra Magnus followed.

Hot Rod didn't like this. "I didn't bring you in here to pay attention to him the whole time!" he whined, shoving Ultra Magnus over so that he could straddle Prime, still laying on the ground and trying to figure out how he got there. He rotated around so that his back was to Prime, scooted backwards, motioned for Ultra Magnus to come to start kissing him, and massaged the same part of Optimus the blue mech had been. With waves of ecstasy reverberating through him with a high level of intensity, all Optimus could do was remain supine and moan.

"Ultra Magnus," Optimus managed to growl as yet another surge of electricity assaulted him, "Leave Hot Rod and come over here."

Hot Rod objected as the other mech hesitated. Hot Rod continued quick little kisses, making short whimpering noises each time Ultra Magnus pulled away a little more. Optimus did not like that. "That's an order, soldier!" How could he refuse? The large blue mech pulled away completely, ignoring Hot Rod's unhappy noises.

"PRIME!" Hot Rod complained. "That's _my_ toy!"

"Too bad," Optimus returned smugly, enjoying the feel of Ultra Magnus' glossa caressing his lips. It sent shivers down his system. To Ultra Magnus he said, "See if you can get my neck."

"Yes, sir." It took quite a bit of tilting and still didn't work, due to all the helmet interference. Ultra Magnus decided to take the initiative and grab a few of Prime's fingers to suck on but was slapped for his impertinence.

"I didn't give you permission," Prime growled threateningly. He was starting to like this.

Ultra Magus lowered his head meekly, lower lip trembling. Dear _Primus_ it was erotic. Optimus grabbed the sides of his head and pulled him into him, allowing no break in the kissing, not even as Hot Rod scratched at the two and demanded to be allowed in. Optimus clung to his trophy as tightly as he could. How long had he wanted to rule over a mech, _this _mech, to take over his body and force him into humiliating positions for his own amusement? The thought sent more shivers throughout Prime's system, causing a moment of physical weakness that the persistent Hot Rod exploited by FINALLY prying the large blue mech away. He rolled off and Hot Rod took over, pointing his blaster at Prime.

"What did I tell you about sharing?" he snarled.

"It is a weak Autobot tendency!" Optimus snapped, groping for the other and trying to ignore the butt of the gun at his throat, the sensitive spot where Ultra Magnus couldn't reach but the current mech on top could. Prime's fingers barely grazed the blue foot to his right.

Hot Rod moved with amazing fluidity and shot the hand.

Optimus snarled at him. "DON'T DO THAT."

"You are _MINE_." The blaster was digging into Prime's chin and scraping at it in an ugly way.

He glared the wrathful glare of the Deprived. "I am fully cognizant of that, _Roddy."_

"Then say it."

Optimus glanced at Ultra Magnus, who was kneeling, silently observing this process and not offering any commentary, like a good plaything. Ooh, Prime had to reward him for that.

"I am yours."

The painful pressure lifted off of him, along with Hot Rod's tight little body. It was like picking which cube of high grade to drink: which to attack first, now that Optimus was free?

Hot Rod proved that, again, he was the master of ceremonies tonight. He walked over to the still-kneeling Ultra Magnus and gave him a very soft kiss on the cheek.

"Transform," he commanded.

He leaned back and shifted shapes, turning and twisting like a beautiful dancer. Optimus gazed in amazement as Ultra Magnus went from regal warrior to simple carrier. Hot Rod climbed onto the lower berth and motioned for Prime to follow. When Optimus continued to lay where he was, the younger mech lost his patience.

"Optimus Prime, get over here or I'm leaving!"

The red and blue mech laughed. "You'd be back in five astro-seconds."

Hot Rod's prissy frown faltered and eased into a grin. "Yeah, I would. But not before I had a blue mist all over me." To demonstrate, the younger Autobot leaned back onto his spoiler and was completely buried in a soft blue field glowing out of Ultra Magnus. He let out a loud cry of pleasure and began to squirm, twisting his body blissfully and allowing his hands to roam wherever they wanted - mostly over his own body.

Prime couldn't watch any longer. He clambered into the trailer, knees clanking and feet catching on the edge in his eagerness to mount them both. Hot Rod laughed out loud as Optimus untangled his feet, cursing his clumsiness. On his hands and knees, he hurried to get on top of the red mech. His uncovered lips clashed with Hot Rod's and the warmth of Ultra Magnus' energy field was soft, blue, and welcoming.

Hot Rod groaned loudly as the lips worked their way down his throat to his chestplate. He grabbed at Optimus' powerful red shoulders, clawing at them wildly with reckless abandon. Below him Ultra Magnus whimpered, silently begging for permission to assist.

Hot Rod could feel his resolve slipping too soon. No, not yet. Optimus had to be taken care of first.

"Prime," Hot Rod spoke in an authoritative way that made the truck pause. "Trade places with me."

Optimus suppressed a shiver. "No," he replied, returning to the difficult task of making the young Autobot's energy field expand by tracing the flames on the dark red chest with his lips.

"Prime!" Hot Rod cried – out of lust or exasperation, it didn't matter – and arched his back, panting as the heated reaction to Optimus' soft touch. Ultra Magnus whined again.

Hot Rod managed to push the blue helmet up, glaring into his optics. "You hear that?" he demanded. "You're ignoring our toy." Ultra Magnus sniveled again, for effect.

Prime scowled, struggling to go back to triggering Hot Rod's sensation receptors. "I'll do what I want."

Hot Rod lifted his right leg, hooking it around Optimus' waist. He shifted his hips enough to bring him off to the side and slide out from under his target. Prime was forced to move as well. Hot Rod managed to climb on top of him, despite Prime's struggles and protests.

"How did you do that?" he demanded. He was almost ready to retract what he'd said earlier about the younger mech's combat skills.

Hot Rod laughed and reached for Optimus' chestplate. "I need to borrow this for a second."

"What? Borrow what?" he asked as Hot Rod pried open his chest and removed a gleaming object. Optimus could only stare. "How did you-?"

"Shh," Hot Rod replied, optics squinting excitedly. "I'm going to push your field into Ultra Magnus."

The carrier below them gasped excitedly. Optimus stared, confused.

"Like this!"

A concentrated ray of blue light shot out from Hot Rod's chest, pulsing and flaring as it shoved Prime backwards, arms waving for something-_anything_- to grab onto and only finding air.

"Ah-" he gasped, unable to say anything else as pure ecstasy throbbed throughout his body, dipping behind him to thrust into the being below him, who screamed loud enough to be heard on the moon, for all they knew. It coursed and burned and tickled and pounded, causing both of the mechs under Hot Rod to mumble incoherently, begging for mercy.

Hot Rod showed none. He began to PULL the field BACK to him. Prime arched his back and realized why Ultra Magnus had been yelling: it was like a hundred fireworks were exploding in his body and the only thing he could do was bellow. Hovering over all of them, grinning evilly, was Hot Rod, who couldn't stop smirking.

"Who's is it?" he sneered.

No response from Optimus. Ultra Magnus answered in his stead, prompting Roddy to tell him to shut up.

"Prime."

No response. "Optimus Prime!" Still nothing. Hot Rod lost patience. "SHOCKWAVE!" He yelled, slapping the being before him.

"Grant me an astro-second," Prime replied. "Megatron's sending a transmission."

"OH COME ON!" Hot Rod snarled, rocking back on his heels. "I made SURE he was busy!"

_Hey Optimus!_

* * *

"Hey Optimus!" 

He had to keep his vocalizer from yelling out loud in frustration. Instead it came out as a growl. Hastily typing a quick 'brb,' Optimus Prime minimized his window and opened the door for Jazz, who breezed in as though he hadn't broken momentum to knock.

"Just got back with some good news!" he announced, waving his arms enthusiastically as he conducted his story. "Megatron's gonna have trouble findin' the ruby for his ray gun-"

"Because you have it," Optimus interrupted impatiently, moving forward to push Jazz out. "And you're going to return it to the museum for me."

Jazz grinned, not put off by this gruff dismissal at all. "Already did it! I came in to ask permission to have a party."

Again? Jazz didn't need an excuse to overindulge in energon half as often as he thought he did. On the other wheel, Jazz had just infiltrated the temporary Decepticon base and ruined their day. He deserved a reward for accomplishing the damn-near impossible, even if it was far too premature for Prime's tastes. "Affirmative." The sooner he got out, the better. Jazz hustled out in his jaunty way and Optimus returned to his computer.

_**daddy mack: I'm back.**_

_**Lng/prpl/1/i'd/gun: What happened?**_

_**daddy mack: Nothing. Where were we ;)**_

_**mecha heiny ho: brb.**_

NOW what? Ten minutes later, 'Ultra Magnus' came back to announce that his boss was on a murderous rampage; apparently something mecha heiny ho was supposed to be monitoring had been tampered with, and he was about to 'get it.'

_**daddy mack: Oh, you'll get it all right. Just not now.**_

_**Lng/prpl/1/i'd/gun: Precisely. I should go, too, I am expecting visitors. See you later, Roddy.**_

_**daddy mack:P**_

Optimus Prime sighed. He'd lost his evening entertainment, unless Gears wasn't busy. According to Prime's messenger window, he wasn't.

**_daddy mack: Are you occupied?_**

**_Gears: Nope. Y? Lonely?_**

**_daddy mack: Affirmative._**

**_Gears: Come over, then._**

At least the evening was not a TOTAL loss. Prime turned off his computer and headed towards the door.


	28. You remind me

For Dave.

* * *

Decepticon attacks always seem to strike at the least convenient time. The Stunticon attack force is not only evil, it's _annoying_. But that's not the most irksome part of my day.

"There has been significant damage to Tower 2," Perceptor reported in his bland-as-water voice, "in addition to the internal ruin."

"Like what?" Kup asks for me. It's a welcome relief to have him here as the seawall between me and Perceptor, who has been trying to hide his 'I TOLD you we needed the THS-1996 defense system I've been harping you about' smirk all day...and failing. The system was – in an eerie coincidence – just what we needed out there. Guess who was more than happy to point that out? I've never wanted to spend a week punching another Autobot's optics back into his faceplate more than I did at the moment Perceptor came in to lord over me how He Told Me So.

"Fortress Maximus cannot transform Defense Grid 7, our communications systems have been obliterated, Wheeljack reports seventeen casualties-"

"Who?" If he's misusing that word again I swear to Primus I'll throw him off the mountainside we're built on.

Perceptor readjusted his datapad. "The Aerialbots, Windcharger, and Cliffjumper sustained minor injuries-"

"When you say _casualty_ around me, what immediate image do you think flashes into my processor?" I demanded, keeping my voice even.

"I beg your pardon, Ultra Magnus, but Miriam Webster's Dictionary, definition two, states that a casualty is **'**a military person lost through death, _wounds, injury, sickness, internment_, or capture or through being missing in action.' My utilization is an acceptable-"

Kup sprang to action, pushing that haughty little slagheap out of my line of vision with an almost gentle 'We can read the report ourselves, thanks, I'll talk to you later,' which would have been fine, _gratitude-inducing_, even, if I hadn't seen Kup's left hand coming down on Perceptor's hindquarters with a playful _smack_ that made me flinch so hard both hands covered my face and I didn't see his reaction when he came back in. He must have assumed I was responding to stress, because all he did was pat me on the shoulder – WITH THE SAME HAND.

I jerked myself away. "You need to get out of here so that I can erase the image of what you just did to him out of my database," I growled. Kup had the decency to look embarrassed.

"I'll be on call if you need me, Ultra Magnus," he said, "Although in an hour…I might be busy."

I've known Kup for millions of years. I've seen him fight, get injured, be compassionate, be dispassionate, cry, laugh, yell, scream, lose his bearings, be tortured, and spend a whole cycle holding a dying mech's hand so that he would not be alone…but the image of him sticking his face into Perceptor's is the one that will haunt my nightmares. He ignored my shudder/involuntary bellow of disgust.

At least that got out the sight of Kup's hand where it shouldn't be, right? No…they've combined into something far more hellish. Oh Primus, kill me now.

"ULTRA MAGNUS!"

Not like that, though. I should be more specific.

"What, Hot Rod?"

Hot Rod has the ability to whine without sounding like he is, but whining all the same. I hope he grows out of it.

"Wheeljack and First Aid won't let me into Med Bay without your permission. Daniel and I want to see Arcee, so can we go in?"

I should have made Springer Hot Rod's mentor, but I lost the figurative coin toss. He got Arcee, the lucky glitch.

"They're busy." Explaining things to him is a waste of time. "You're not even supposed to be in there right now. You're on patrol."

"No, that's Hoist," he retorted triumphantly. His news caused me to stand up.

"Hoist? But he was in New York City with the others helping out after that attack….Why didn't Prime send news?" Prime and his team had been gone from the Oregon site since September, when they traded places with the Aerialbots. Now it was January.

"Hoist says he did. Our comms aren't working."

That's right, Perceptor told me that. Ugh, that image is _still__there_. But another picture popped up in its place. "Who else is back?"

"Sideswipe, Hound, Inferno, and Red Alert. Prime went back to the Ark, I guess."

It's very difficult to keep the desperation out of my vocalizer. "Blaster is still in New York, then." Where was Tracks? The same place? The Ark? Why couldn't our communications systems be working?

Hot Rod didn't notice, because it didn't concern him. "So can I get into Med Bay or not?" he asked.

I wasn't even paying attention anymore. "No, not if Wheeljack doesn't want you there," I murmur, not even hearing his exclamation of unhappiness. "Hot Rod, you are dismissed." Too bad I can't tell him 'I'm having a bad day and you're making it worse.' Sympathy is a tempting but hackneyed excuse, and in my profession there are no excuses. "Why don't you go play football with Daniel instead?"

He left, the same way he came in, angry and dramatic. Blurr hustled in at that exact moment.

"Ultra Magnus we've got a big big big big big big BIG problem! I was looking around the mountain for Decepticon spies and it was really cloudy and hard to see where I was going since when it's sunset and cloudy its hard to see anything and I thought about going on Infrared but it's not dark enough, right , and when I transformed to get a better look at some scorched trees – you know how those trees catch on fire so easily (but I thought it was weird that they weren't on fire, but I remembered that it rained during battle, that was why but it still seemed weird) and anyway they weren't on fire but I was walking around that area and everything's hard to see and I hear a _crunch_ and I realized that I stepped on something and I thought to myself 'what's this?' and when I looked down I saw that it was a LAND MINE."

He held up what was left of it. He must have outrun the explosion; he's done it before. I took a good look at it while he told me that it started a chain reaction of land mines going off around the base that was only halted when Inferno and Red Alert had happened to show up.

"These could be EVERYWHERE," I heard myself say. My processor's going through a million questions and potential consequences of these bombs being here. It looked like we'd have another lockdown...

"I looked everywhere and found a whole bunch of mines and I was able to flag them all but this is where it got bad see somebody took all the flags down and I can't remember where they all are so there might be a few missing."

KA-BOOOOM.

Tracks used to tell me that no situation can be so bad that you lose your sense of humor.

"There's one," I remarked wryly while Blurr started screeching and running around in circles, yelling his responsibility over who had just been destroyed. I almost told him to shut up when I remembered who I'd sent outside.

"Daniel!" I called, sprinting for the door.

* * *

Hot Rod was inconsolable. "It's all my fault! I wanted him to 'go long'!" 

Blurr was hysterical. "I should have come to you sooner Ultra Magnus it's all my fault-"

Perceptor was even more smug than before. "The THS-1996 would have been able to disarm this bomb safely AND efficiently with its cadre of metal-detecting drones."

Daniel was outraged. "My GRANDFATHER gave me that football! You have the worst throwing arm in the galaxy, Hot Rod!"

"At least the clumsiest."

"What?"

"I said, 'He'll buy you another one'," I announced. "At least no one was hurt."

This was a small consolation. "Where am I going to find another football at seven pm on a Sunday? All the stores are closed."

I didn't care. "Blurr, I want you and Perceptor to find and dig up every single land mine the Decepticons have planted NOW. Red Alert, find a way to get a hold of Cosmos so that we can contact Prime. Hot Rod, you, Inferno, Kup and Daniel tell everyone that we're in a state of lockdown until further notice. Anyone with a problem with that can take it up with me." There would be problems. There always were. Like an hour later. Wheeljack was out of power, First Aid was livid that Hot Rod had managed to sneak into Med Bay to talk to Arcee under the pretext of my orders, Red Alert couldn't make heads or tails of Blaster's wiring system ("I'd do better throwing rocks at Cosmos and hoping they hit!"), and I had to communicate to Prime via Carly's cellular phone, which I borrowed when she came to bring Daniel home. She was a willing go-between, but I could not ask her to ask about Tracks.

Worst of all, I missed my sunset.

If there's one thing that calms me down and makes me feel like Tracks is with me, it's knowing that in his mind he is watching the sun go down with me in some form. He might not be here, but he misses me. He loves me. It's that reminder that keeps me sane, renews my faith in us, reminds me that no matter what happens, we're going to be all right. Even when it is raining (as it does around here, a lot) I go up there. Today I missed it completely, and it's put me in some kind of odd middle ground, feeling as though my day is incomplete.

I returned to my chambers around midnight. Red Alert found a way to begin the communications restructuring. Repairs were complete. Carly promised Daniel a new football. Blurr calmed down. Kup…made me shudder again when he showed me something I had PRAYED I'd never see.

I usually don't bother turning on the light when I come in this late, out of habit, since Tracks hates it when I wake him up. Even though he's not here, I still do it – except that I was brought out of my plate in such a rush this morning I've left the light on all day. I came in and my weary optics rested on the small brown bear with the "I (heart shape) NY" tee shirt sitting on his side of the plate, on the shelf that hangs there.

"I had a bad day," I told it. Its glassy optics shine at me in a most un-ursine way, but the reminder of the Autobot who sent it to me is still there. It makes me smile.

I'm offline before I even realize the light's still on.


	29. Solitary Man

**Don't know that I will**

**But until I can find me**

**A girl who'll stay**

**And won't play games behind me**

**I'll be what I am**

**A solitary man**

**Johnny Cash (doing a Neil Diamond song) **

Thundercracker's retreating back had become a familiar sight to Mixmaster. Perhaps if he weren't constantly trying to get the larger mech's attention, then he wouldn't be swallowing this constant feeling of desperate frustration that just PULLED him to the object of his desire like a godly planet's gravity. He was irresistible.

"Th-th-th-thundercracker?" he called.

The bright blue and white body never rotated. The legs alternated, the hips swayed slightly, and the head continued pointing forward. "Skywarp gave you the last part of the repair payment," Thundercracker rumbled, pace accelerating slightly (or was that Mixmaster's imagination?).

"I was wo-wo-wo-" curse this faulty vocalizer! Both Hook and Scrapper had yet to find the source of it, and it seemed to short out at the WORST moments!

Thundercracker didn't give him even a backwards glance before slamming his chamber door in the Constructicon's face.

"-Wondering if you wanted...to..." Oh just give it up. Why did he even make a second attempt after the colossal fool he'd made of himself the last time he'd admitted his attraction? Because it had initiated a rift between Skywarp and Thundercracker, one that had the large blue jet actually flashing a few secretive smiles in the Constructicon's direction, making him feel as though he'd made some headway. But that had dried up as quickly as it had emerged, and Mixmaster was back to being ignored.

Skywarp seemed to materialize from behind (but he didn't at the base because it ticked off Megatron) and shoved him aside with a lot more force than was necessary. "He doesn't want you, loser. Go find one of your freaky buddies to talk to."

He lay there, pondering the meaning of life, until Bonecrusher called him up for repair duty.

* * *

He had never known an ecstasy like this. Wave after wave of some kind of cooling red balm, one that smoothed rough edges and completely erased all of the hurt and made him feel beautiful, loved, accepted - it all emanated and pulsed and hit a hot blue energy field like a tennis ball on a cement wall, bouncing back to him and hurting a little. 

Jazz snickered at the noises made. Mixmaster didn't care. So THIS was what everyone had been talking about: how one minute you were trying to kill each other, the next a nasty Autobot was on top of you, sliding his hands around places his fingers shouldn't know about and making you feel so good you couldn't see anything in front of you. Shockwave had warned them about mixing - how you never knew how a blue field would affect you, how Autobots had different microbes living in them and they might give you a virus, what giving that kind of lower-class scum power over you would do - but it had happened so wonderfully fast Mixmaster hadn't time or inclination to object. The sheer reaction of their different fields…he'd wondered…it felt better than any rapturous conquest, more exhilarating than any magnificent structure, and Jazz-

-was getting up. "They're playing your song, honey," he purred, pulling Mixmaster to his feet, turning him around, and giving his backside a saucy smack. Sure enough, Megatron had called for a retreat. "Better run along home."

"I had fu-" he wanted to ask Jazz to meet him somewhere and do this again. He wanted to feel those hands all over him one more time. He wanted Jazz to stop transforming but the Decepticons were taking off above him and the Porsche had peeled away and the slightly unsavory sensation that this had not been passion overtaking both of them but a very cruel distraction was clinging to his conscience like residual oil at the bottom of a beaker.

"Where were you?" Scrapper snarled upon Mixmaster flying up to join them. "We couldn't form Devastator!" Implied was that this was the reason the Decepticons were soundly defeated. Mixmaster's feeling of being used increased tenfold, crushing whatever pleasure had lingered.

"I was distracted," he reported glumly, realizing that it would be a LONG time before he'd be allowed near any of his cohorts, who would regard him as 'tainted' for this sin he'd committed.

"Jazz?" Scavenger asked. Mixmaster stared back, his astonishment unconcealed. He nodded.

They comprehended. "He fights dirty. What did he do, pretend to surrender and then open fire once you got close enough? He did that to Bonecrusher."

"Starscream, too."

"He got me by waiting 'til I was trying to fix something he'd broken on the generator," Hook supplied.

"He got me when I was moving parts," Longhaul complained.

"I was ambushed in a dump," Scavenger admitted.

It was all Mixmaster could do to keep from wanting to hit something. Although he was forgiven, even getting empathy, it was for the wrong thing. Their testimonials were for Jazz being excessively violent, not tender. Unfortunately, Jazz was creative, sensing what each one of them needed, and using it to his advantage. He'd somehow figured out what Mixmaster badly desired and exploited it for his own devices. The depression hit him like rain, cascading down and saturating him. He'd been used. Deceived.

"Hey Mixmaster! Yer wanted in the throneroom!" Rumble called, sounding gleeful.

Scrap.

* * *

Cliques. In-groups. Gestalts. Trines. Whatever. Hierarchal structures had their place, but when it came to chasing metal, they SHOULD, in theory, be classified as a secondary concern. At least Mixmaster thought so. 

Not as such. Everyone had a group of people, everyone had an agenda, and none of it gave room for HIM. He felt as though he were intruding on some kind of sacred fraternity any time he attempted rapport with his fellow Decepticons.

"Beat it," Ramjet snarled.

"Get out of my way or I'll tear you apart!" Motormaster bellowed.

"Leave him alone or I'm telling Megatron!" Skywarp brandished his guns for emphasis.

"What do YOU want?" Blast Off sighed, as though ONE more inconvenience to his day were just too much for his finite patience.

"Um-um-um-" He hated stumbling all over himself. He got so unnerved he began to cackle to himself, making communication even more difficult.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Brawl thundered, looking as threatening as he sounded.

The problem with his own gestaltmates was that they were too close to him; it invalidated what he was trying to do. They of course didn't know this, and assumed it was loneliness. They had made it abundantly comprehensible that they did not think of him that way and would NOT, because they knew him too well and barely tolerated him as it was.

* * *

"Hook?" 

He kept staring at that door as though he expected someone to walk through it. When it became apparent that the entrance would remain unoccupied, Hook finally tore his visor away from it to address Mixmaster.

"What?"

Mixmaster braced himself, ready for the onslaught of annoyance yet to come.

"Can you help me?"

Hook didn't need further clarification. "Who is it this time?" he sighed.

"Blast Off."

Hook shuddered. "I hate your taste in mechs." After a moment of suspense, the crane came up with a scheme: one of the satellites needed repair, and although it was not high on the list of Constructicon priorities, it could be made that way. Blast Off would take both of them up to repair any and all damage.

"Perfect," Mixmaster announced.

"My plans are," Hook retorted.

* * *

It was bizarre, but Hook had an amazing talent of being able to get Decepticons to talk about their favorite subjects. 

"I prefer shorter missions, to the Moon or something nearby," Blast Off explained, steering them clear of a careening human satellite. "There's something to be said for traveling far enough away to not hear Starscream yet close enough that you will not miss him being reprimanded."

"Hehehehe," Mixmaster giggled, perhaps a little too much. Hook didn't show it but he was internally frowning. Blast Off had been discussing Starscream nonstop ever since takeoff. It was disconcerting, especially when Mixmaster gave him another elbowing to prompt him.

Hook hated being Mixmaster's mouthpiece/enabler. The talking-up never worked. All it did was make them both look like fools and it crushed his gestaltmate and made HIM wonder what was wrong with his delivery. But every time the crane wanted to say 'no' he couldn't bring himself to do it. Mixmaster's disappointment in the hands of another, not Hook, was the easier option. He'd better say something, he was being elbowed again.

"And who doesn't want to miss that?" he asked. Quick, change the subject! "You must get lonely performing these missions on your own."

"I do," Blast Off agreed softly, "but I would rather deal with the occasional loneliness than having to tolerate another Decepticon relationship. When we get back home I'm finding a neutral and enjoying a long, uncomplicated interaction."

Mixmaster chuckled. He hadn't gotten the point. Hook did. He immediately began discussing their mission, although it annoyed his fellow Constructicon to the point that on their way back he FINALLY spoke up for himself.

"Would-would-would you like to come down to my lab when we get back?" he asked, fingers fumbling over themselves as they clicked together. It was a nervous habit that he thought he'd eradicated long ago.

"Whatever for?" Blast Off asked off-the-cusp. His attention was more focused on atmosphere re-entry.

Mixmaster was at a complete loss. "Um-um-um-"

"He wants to get to know you better," Hook interrupted, tired of all of this social stumbling. "He finds you moderately attractive." That was his own word, 'moderately.' Hook had found it a good insult that no one took as such, the sloppy mechs that they were. Decepticons had such LOW standards...

Mixmaster wanted more than that. He wanted to fling open the doors of his inner sanctum and show Blast Off everything, let him see the quirks, the endearments, the intimate, the silly, the sweet, just please come in and be welcome! Be his. Be somebody to be proud of. Be somebody who meshed well with him. He waited as the entire vessel shook and the dangerous part of their journey finished.

"I'm busy," Blast Off replied. "For the rest of the cycle." He did not offer another time. He did not offer anything. Mixmaster nodded, Hook turned away to retrieve their cargo, and Blast Off turned his focus to landing.

* * *

Omega Supreme was missed by only one Constructicon. 

Most of them had their reasons: the guardian was old, outdated, had assaulted them when he assumed that they were manipulated by the Robo-Smasher, his refusal to join with them had ruined any goodwill, etc. Mixmaster didn't care for the reasons behind the fallout anymore than he cared to recall the uncertainty and discomfort they'd went through in the time leading up to the end; all he remembered was the positive. He did not voice his pining, preferring instead to spend more time in his laboratory concocting greater chemicals of doom.

Hook thought nothing more of it. He was more relieved that Mixmaster had ceased his attempts to conjoin himself with those who considered him undesirable. The clueless nut did not understand that they were just not interested. Mixmaster was far too different and, to tell the truth, closer to what would be classified as 'ugly.' Thundercracker had revealed what was wrong with Mixmaster when he'd demanded to know what the Constructicon would do for HIM and Mixmaster had been mute. If one could not bring something to elevate the status of the other, there would be no interaction. It was that simple.

Omega Supreme had loved Mixmaster the best. The mixer was Omega's favorite, someone who lit up the gruff giant's entire face and made him laugh. They had an amazing chemistry that he seemed unable to replicate, even today. Mixmaster rooted around for scraps of high regard and always came up empty. Omega's lack of presence continued to be a source of grief for an unwanted, ugly, crazy mech.

* * *

Megatron found out. Nobody knew who had told him, perhaps Blast Off and Starscream WERE a little more chummy than others had assumed, and given Starscream's tendency to talk...when their fearless leader discovered an injured dolphin leaking blood in his pool of lust he was not a shark to overlook an easy meal. 

Mixmaster had been called down into Megatron's throne room and led out of there by their leader so fast the only thing the other five could do was stare in shock at them passing on their way to another part of the ship. Megatron had snarled "Discover what happens to those who are FAR too preoccupied with my soldier's personal interests!" to them over his shoulder, stalking down the hallway with a frightening mien, continuing to shout orders to the remaining Constructicons to wait for Mixmaster's return. Whenever that would be.

Hook slunk down with the others into repair bay and reticently bore the Seeker's taunts and insults and horror stories.

"When he had ME pay homage I couldn't stand up straight. Remember how long it took you to fix that, Scrapper?"

"The first time he did that to Frenzy he cried for a cycle."

"Did not!"

Even Soundwave wanted to get in the act. "Megatron: rough."

Starscream was the worst. "He heard that Mixmaster was looking for love in all the wrong places!" he sneered, not needing repair but taking time out of his hectic life to see how Blast Off was doing. "The least he could do was to help your friend out!"

"I always wondered why he never forced you to show your respect," Blast Off mused.

Starscream leaned into the doorway, followed by Ravage. At last! Hook knelt down and accepted the cat's paw in his hand, giving a time and a place. Ravage purred softly and glided out again. He'd been spying on the Autobots all this time, which was why he'd been to busy to visit. Or so he claimed. Hook took it for what it was worth and continued to pay no attention to those determined to obviate themselves.

"Is it because you are his creator?" Starscream demanded, no longer taunting. He really wanted to know and was guessing.

"Repairs are complete," Scavenger announced, beginning to clean off his tools. Starscream tilted his head as he watched each Constructicon move away from him like an oil spill from a drop of detergent. His questions would not be answered. Starscream debated pulling rank, and as he did Mixmaster tottered down the hallway looking like he'd been pounded by a plague of Jazzes.

"What happened to YOU?" He leered, already laughing as he planned the report to his trinemates. He didn't need to ask, he knew. It was fun to ask though.

Long Haul ran over and do a quick check and found nothing vital injured, but still, maybe he should let Hook do a diagnostic, just in case. Hook came forward with the others at his heels. They seemed almost relieved to see him not upset.

"I want to be alone," Mixmaster announced, brushing the rest of his team away. "Don't touch me." He marched into the laboratory and shut the door behind him with a loud, upset slam.

Scrapper shrugged. "He wants to be alone." That was fine with him. Listening to his gestaltmate whine about the hurt heaped upon him sounded about as much fun as listening to Rumble's idea of good music. The Constructicons had not been given any orders other than 'wait until he comes back before you leave,' therefore they took a vote and decided to stay until nightfall, when they could escape easier.

* * *

Mixmaster, dented and scraped up and slightly lightheaded, listened to them leave before he leaned against the door and let his body slide down. He'd been grabbed. He'd been pushed, pulled, bent, pinched, fondled, and ravished within every inch of his body. The combination of physical, mental, and psychological energies was AMAZING. Perfect. 

The cackling erupted and didn't stop for a very long time. The vibrations only made the discomfort of his injuries intensify, and eventually the pain won out over the elation and Mixmaster had to go find Hook to patch him up.

After a mixing like that the solitary life didn't sound so bad now.


	30. It's Not Over

_Let's start over.  
I'll try to do it right this time around.  
It's not over.  
'Cause a part of me is dead and in the ground.  
This love is killing me,  
But you're the only one.  
It's not over._

_Daughtry_

"Jazz!"

After six long and lonely months the Autobot peace emissary was BACK from its meeting, back with Springer's friends, associates, Prime, and one incredibly good-looking mech with a visor who had been given a long enough period of time to digest the heavy hint the triple-changer had given him before departure.

Tracks staggered off of his recharge plate to greet the five am arrival too, claiming that he was there 'under penalty of NuFinish,' and that the sooner he could get back to bed the better.

Never mind, the Ego had landed. Sky Lynx opened his hatch (proclaiming his greatness as both pilot and flight attendant) and Rodimus Prime came out with a dozen datapads worth of work, a facial conveyance pronouncing an onslaught of the robot version of a migraine, FOUR Autobots and two humans yelling in his audios, and a meager assembly before him. Without missing a beat, he held his hand up in greeting as the six voices faltered and started up again after allowing the informality of his welcome committee, which happened to be six MORE Autobots with reports regarding how the base had been run while he was away. Springer could swear he heard Wheelie's sing-song cadence in there, but didn't see him. Was Roddy's radio on, too?

Kup walked out, greeted Springer, and trailed after Rodimus, telling the green mech that 'it went as well as the Hart/Spencer standoff of 1998,' which meant not well. He would fill him in later; right now he had to talk to Rodimus.

"Good luck," Springer said with a wry twist of his mouth as Kup's retreating back gained momentum.

Ultra Magnus walked off of Sky Lynx with a brisk gait that quickened when he saw who had practically fallen offline standing up to greet him. Naturally, their commanding officer would keep his dignity in public. Tracks watched him walk by and followed him, smirking more than a little. Right before the main dormitory entrance Tracks veered off to the left and pressed himself against the wall, waiting for Ultra Magnus to notice that nobody marched behind him. Scowling, the larger Autobot stuck his head out the doorway, peering right, then left, acknowledging the still-smirking Tracks with a deeper scowl, and ducking back indoors. Tracks waited a few seconds, smirk widening to a smile, and then rushed inside, footfalls clanking loudly as he hurried to catch up.

Witnessing this pageantry had cost him the chance to see Jazz de-board Sky Lynx. Luckily, he was not that far away. He headed uphill, more than likely going to his favorite spot: the Memorial Garden.

"Jazz!" It took a few hops, but he got there soon enough, ready to let the fun begin. He had a hand on his friend's shoulder as he prepared to give him their customary friendly shove. "How was-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Jazz had a large clay pot in his hands, an old thing that was scratched and marred and stained and ugly as all get out, and he wrenched his body out of Springer's grasp so fast it surprised him.

"Watch out!" he hissed. "You almost made me drop it!"

"What?" Springer took a step back. Jazz resumed his departure. "Jazz?"

"Leave me alone, ok?" he snarled, transforming. The pot disappeared inside of subspace and the Porsche disappeared in a cloud of dust.

* * *

Kup would know what was wrong. He always did. 

"I don't know," the truck announced, moving up one place in line. The queue outside of Prime's door was ridiculous. It was true what they said: gone a long time, nothing happens; gone a short time and everything goes to the Pit.

"You don't? So one day he was fine, and the next day-"

"Pretty much."

Behind him, Perceptor gently cleared his vocalizer. Both Autobots glanced at him. Kup gave a barely discernible smile. "I beg your pardon for the interruption, but perhaps I could enlighten you to a previously unconsidered variable?"

Why not? Kup had four more places in line ahead of them, one of them Spike.

"As you are aware, I am on the funeral committee." He waited for their nods. "One of our endeavors is to ensure the proper care of non-functioning corpses, so that they are either respectably recycled - per their request - or given a proper ceremonial farewell. As of the third of March, which was during the peace conference, we received word that there was a recently deceased member of the Autobot army to procure and furnish a full warrior bereavement ceremony."

Bumblebee was two mechs behind Perceptor. "I heard about that!"

"Heard about what?" First Aid was three Autobots behind him.

Bumblebee said it before Perceptor could. "Smokescreen died!"

* * *

_It was a rough climb through the rubble that had been an Autobot ship. They all were digging, scrapping, scavenging__for anything of use to help repair Autobot City after the cataclysmic battle that had rendered their army Primeless. Springer, of all the rotten luck, had been stuck in a trio with Blurr and Perceptor, both of whom were having a blather-off._

_"Fascinating! My Chorostop coating prevented the ship's windows from-"_

_"-asdhfuihrtjtvidnfidetroitjoeugosjgfisjdfsdugl-" interrupted a blue-and-white smear as it managed to completely remove an entire square decimeter of various-sized pebbles from the growing-ever-heavier slab of metal Springer held aloft._

_"Perceptor, I could really use a hand right now," the green mech called gently. Humor did not work on his helpers, and yelling never did Ultra Magnus any favors; therefore when dealing with two Autobots who chattered like a Brazilian rain forest's worth of parrots, the best method was a direct reminder of his presence. Perceptor cast aside the whole-but shattered window to join Springer's lift. _

_Bang! Wheeze! CLANK!_

_Blurr had tripped. Blurr had fallen. Blurr had tripped and fallen over a limp white hand missing its thumb casing. Springer wasted no time calling over more assistants. Smokescreen, Hound, and Sunstreaker were nearby and Kup was on his way but did not make it over in time before the large metal slab was gently placed down and five Autobots dug into the pile of metal and rock. Smokescreen, for some reason, was backing away, lips moving in an unheard prayer that seemed to be losing efficacy as he saw more and prayed faster._

_Springer registered none of this; he was moving the discarded pile of jettisoned rock when Perceptor changed position to face the area behind the headless body to uncover the detached cerebellum, giving an unintentionally offensive cry of delight at the discovery of the final puzzle piece._

_"It is who we thought it to be," he announced, still FAR too jubilant._

_Smokescreen fell to his knees with a moan of agony, lips stationary in defeat._

* * *

When had Jazz gone back to earth? It had to be sometime after the great war, but before that athletic competition that had revealed the Quintessons. Springer racked his processor as the others around him gossiped about Smokescreen's decision to hide in New York with Tracks ("unwarranted and UNWANTED," Tracks declared resentfully), right after Galvatron first showed himself. They thought it would be good for him to help out at Sparkplug's Garage, collecting and storing the bodies for the funeral barge. Springer hadn't been there for that. He was on Cybertron up until the actual ceremony. Jazz had been on earth by then, making a special trip up. When HAD he gone down?

* * *

_The celebration died down faster than expected when Ultra Magnus stepped forward to remind the new Prime that they still had several duties requiring attention. As the crowds broke and reformed into more casual masses one large red scientist took it upon himself to do the unpleasant._

_Perceptor refused to look at his target as he approached, stopping at a respectful distance and handing over something small._

_"I am sorry, Jazz," he managed to murmur decorously, as though he were apologizing for stepping on Jazz's foot instead of being the harbinger of a great deal of pain. "Prowl was one of those that was irreparable."_

_The Porsche himself...said nothing in reply. He accepted the minuscule token - or whatever it was, Springer couldn't make it out - and nodded with a firm resolve that made it seem as though this WERE a minor transgression committed, like Perceptor had failed to find Jazz's favorite polishing rag amongst the rubble, not his sparkmate. Again, Springer saw none of this full-on. It was in the background, making it harder to discern from the sludge of his usual interactions with others, especially Arcee post-battle._

_Arcee...had acquired another sigil from somewhere. She wouldn't say whose it belonged to, except for that the owner of it was "a heroine," which couldn't be right, but she was following military protocol for sparkmates to wear the sigil of their non-functioning other half, and slag if Springer knew who that was..._

_Hot Rod - no, wait, Rodimus Prime, was up to his spoiler in work, as were Kup and Ultra Magnus, and Blurr had disappeared almost completely, but there was Wheelie. No, wait, who HAD he been talking to that day?_

_Red Alert. He had been warning Springer that there were far too many Decepticons floating loosely in space, and that one of them was bound to return with a vengeance, or with Galvatron, and all it took was a clever individual and - BOOM - Unicron would be upon them._

_Springer had a taste for novelties back then, Red Alert being the most fascinating paranoid-schizophrenic-sharp-processored Autobot of them all. Unicron resurrected! The very idea!_

_He STILL couldn't remember what Jazz had done or said, or when he'd done it. What did Smokescreen have to do with Prowl, and why did it affect Jazz so much?_

* * *

ALL DAY. **ALL** day. 

Today, Rodimus Prime had taken care of everything short of Daniel's football injury ("It's a contusion, he'll be fine," was the long and the short of it.) The line at his door had tripled at five-thirty because those who had addressed him with their concerns and reports and had followed up after taking care of it were now there for a THIRD time with new problems/results. It was enough to make him wish for a Decepticon attack, just to clear the hallway.

Around nine-fifteen he thought he might start screaming.

Kup had solved "The Mystery of the Peanut Butter Sandwich" and reported the culprit's punishment and was about to leave when he asked about Smokescreen.

Prime's patience was wearing down as he retorted "What about Smokescreen?" It took a perusal of The Matrix to figure that one out, since so many names had been thrown at him today Rodimus was confused enough to have probably responded to being called Jennifer. "I worked out the details with Perceptor. He'll be launched into space to link up with the funeral barge and he gets a plaque in the Memorial Garden."

Kup nodded. "What did he have to do with Jazz?"

The Matrix sent a shot of hot current up to Rodimus' head, like acid reflux.

"Plenty. But I don't think I'm the person to tell it." He stood up to signal the end of the meeting. "Who else is out there?"

"First Aid, a smelly Ultra Magnus - " Kup paused as Rodimus grimaced at the second blast of current, no doubt something residual from the previous Matrix owner. "-a cranky Pipes, and Swoop."

The currents stopped, counter-attacked by a wave of guilt. "Will you do me a favor and tell Swoop to cut in line?"

* * *

Springer had carefully stalked his way through the underbrush to take the long route up the hill to the Memorial Garden. He wanted to catch Jazz in the act. After consulting Kup and wracking his brain, Springer had abandoned his place in line with a new resolution: talk to Jazz himself. 

When he got to the top of the hill, he could hear Jazz's musical voice in action. He always talked to Prowl's nameplated plaque up here. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he worked on the huge perennial flower garden he'd conned Springer into helping him plant last April, and sometimes he just stood there and stared at it. Today the velvet purr that was Jazz was rough, torn with grief and bitterness, snarling like a furious cat cornered in a veterinarian's office. Springer could barely make out the words at this distance, and the wind was blowing the sound of rustling leaves around his audios to further cloud it.

"-always knew you liked him better than me - flimsy piece of tin - you couldn't forgive ME, but you expect me to - HOW COULD YOU!"

His vocalizer died three seconds before the wind did, and a half a minute before Springer was near the garden. Jazz turned around and glared at him, wrath undiminished.

"Springer, man, I told you to leave me alone." It was gentle, lyrical, richly belying the barely concealed fury that lied beneath.

"Jazz-I...what did you do?" The triple-changer had emerged from the wildlife and gaped at the chaos before him. The Red Columbine, the Douglas Iris, the Tiger Lily, everything he'd been tending while Jazz was away...torn up into organic confetti. What was once something beautiful was now a huge pile of mulch.

"I told you to **leave me alone!**" Now he sounded like he would kill. Springer decided to be rude and transformed into a helicopter, for a faster escape.

* * *

Swoop ducked past Kup and waited for the door to close behind him. He didn't look angry, he didn't look overjoyed...he seemed more...curious, as to see why the boss had called him in...However, he had been the one in line. Rodimus had always wanted to get Swoop into his office and do deliciously evil things to him, and now that he was here, the urge pulled at him like gravity. Swoop backed away. 

"You Rodimus Prime miss me Swoop's movie!"

The predicate of that sentence was almost lost on him. "Your-oh NO, that came out already? When?"

Swoop nodded unhappily, arms crossed. "Last weekend of May."

"Oh, Sweetie, I'm so sorry," he moaned, arms around his Dinobot. He had been told that "Dinosaurs Eat Cavemen" would open while he was gone, but Swoop had heard that there was some kind of editing problem and that the premiere date had been pushed back. Rodimus had hoped that the movie, with all of the Dinobots' cameo appearances that had been hyped in all the promos, would come out after he'd returned. Apparently not.

"Me Swoop sorry too. Grimlock say it better with just us Dinobots but me Swoop wanted you Rodimus there." He still did not accept the hug, nor any of the caresses Rodimus' silver hands offered in a follow-up. Rodimus said nothing, instead looking at Swoop pleadingly. His monitor flashed as Ultra Magnus checked in to give a status report.

"Check in later," Rodimus called over his spoiler. Ultra Magnus complied.

"I know you Rodimus Prime busy," the Dinobot admitted, posture finally relaxing to the point where he allowed his fingers drift around Rodimus' waist in a careful concession. "That why me Swoop wait all day at end of line to talk to you. Line keep going."

"No kidding," Rodimus replied, lifting his head up to address someone else. "Metroplex!" he called.

"Yes, Prime?"

"Tell everybody else in line I'm not coming out unless we're under fire, and KEEP that door locked." He squeezed his armful a little tighter as he announced this. Swoop's smile emerged.

"Yes, Prime."

"Now..." Ooooh, he wanted to do naughty things to Swoop. Those sweet little lips just begged to be nibbled on, and those wings were like satin that NEEDED to be touched and tickled, but first things first. "I want to see your movie."

Swoop watched him return to his desk, slightly confused. "It not on DVD yet."

Rodimus Prime leaned over his monitor, typing as fast as possible. "It'll be somewhere on the Internet. When it's downloaded, it'll be just you and me watching it."

He was almost crushed in the delighted hug this elicited. Especially when said hug led to much more pleasant exercises.

* * *

"Rodimus Prime is not to be disturbed," Metroplex boomed as Springer poised to knock on the door. 

"Did he mean everyone, or just me?" It still felt strange addressing a ceiling. Others adapted to it, but Springer belonged to the camp that didn't like feeling like he was talking to an imaginary friend.

"Everyone."

Springer sighed. It was easier to get a hold of Bigfoot than his own best buddy. Well, second-best buddy. Things had deteriorated after Swoop came into the picture. Springer's best friend was Jazz, who - like the previous confidante- refused to talk to him or anybody. Sighing again, the triple-changer turned away and headed down the hallway towards the gymnasium.

But what was that?

Music?

Laughter?

Jazz's laughter! The need for speed increased until he was thundering to a stop at the gymnasium door. The laughter halted when he entered. Blaster, Jazz, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Tracks, Hound, the Protectobots, and half of the Aerialbots were there, having what looked like a large shindig...one that didn't include Springer. Although Blaster shook his head, Jazz waved over his friend unsteadily. He looked like he'd ingested a large amount of energon already.

"C'mon down! We were talkin' about the old days!" he slurred.

Springer quietly eased into the room, well aware of the unreceptive glares he was getting from others like Blaster. Jazz didn't seem to care at all. "Hey, Tracks, remember that big alien that came down and tried to eat San Diego?"

Tracks smiled grimly. "That was the last time I willingly fought with Beachcomber."

"I didn't want to after that time he went nuts over that electrum pool!" Sunstreaker snorted.

"That WAS sad," Hound objected. Springer asked someone to tell the story, and Hound replied that it was too long. Slingshot interrupted with some unrepeatable tale involving Beachcomber and a Volkswagen van, which made them all crack up. Blaster cranked his stereo, playing some song where "feel like makin' love" was repeated while the older Autobots sang along and shouted out various pairings they'd witnessed over time.

"Bumblebee and that girl in Peru's car!" Again, too long a story. Springer was on the side of Jazz that was twisting away from him to face Blaster, who was fielding rapid-fire recollections. How to get Jazz's attention-

"Snarl and Sludge still hold hands in the hallway."

"I once walked in on Mirage and Cliffjumper on the shower rack."

"Remember Prime's trips to see Shockwave?"

"Oh PRIMUS, that was gross! Ratchet told me about that! Who told HIM?"

"Bumblebee! He'll tell you ANYTHING!"

Blaster looked at Jazz fondly, exchanging a secret little smile with him. Springer's solenoids froze up, feeling the need to say SOMETHING. "I saw Ultra Magnus and Tracks in Autobot City's basement," he announced loudly.

"Who hasn't?" Fireflight snorted dismissively. "Hey Jazz, I saw you and Prowl making out once."

"Where?" Jazz asked the same time First Aid sputtered "I don't believe you!"

It had been a dark hill on a dark night, but he knew it was them. He kept hearing 'Prowlie-bot' being moaned over and over. Where had that nickname come from?

"Oh, yeah, that was before you were made."

Sideswipe couldn't stop himself from interrupting. "Jazz went to a garage sale looking for a garage. They didn't have any, but they had a VCR and tapes for $10." The package deal had an inventory of several 1980's sitcoms, including an overabundance of 'Mork and Mindy' episodes. Mork said 'Shazz-bot' whenever he got mad. After a processor-numbing marathon Sideswipe hatched the great idea of calling his commanding officer "Jazz-bot." It caught like wildfire. Jazz retaliated by calling everyone by their name with the word 'bot' after it. Optimus Prime-bot put the kibosh on THAT.

"Except for Prowl," the Porsche supplied, mouth twisting wistfully. He'd told Jazz, in his usual stilted way, that he didn't mind being called that. It became a sweet little moniker. Jazz looked so far away...Blaster beat him to it, putting an arm around the smaller mech and giving him a half-hug.

"Prowl was a great guy," he announced softly, earning a grateful beam.

Tracks lifted his arm in the air, drink sloshing precariously. "I propose a toast. To Prowl: the safety wall between me and Optimus Prime truly kicking my tailpipe."

Springer glanced at the Corvette and wondered what that meant. Hadn't Optimus been the greatest leader ever, loving all and eschewing hatred? That's how it sounded nowadays.

Sideswipe raised his energon flask. "To Prowl: the mech who vaulted over Slag to get to us first!"

Sunstreaker cackled. "Was that the time we gave Grimlock bubblegum and he got it all over himself?" The Dinobot had been incapacitated after he'd proven that he could NOT walk and chew gum at the same time, ordering his minions to 'Get twins!' Prowl saw what was going on (from the other side of the hallway!) and had managed to halt the onslaught. The twins had been punished with a separate patrol schedule that prevented them from collaborating their revenge. "Yeah, Prowl was a smarty."

Hound chuckled and raised his flask, too. "To Prowl, who told Prime to his face that the plan would work if Optimus had the cast-iron manifolds to do it." The Protectobots elevated their beverage containers to that.

Air Raid raised his as well. "When Starscream had me captive so we couldn't form Superion Prowl distracted him with some kind of riddle that kept them arguing long enough for Jazz to get me loose." The Aerialbots followed suit.

Blaster's arm went up. "To Prowl: the only guy who watched Spongebob Squarepants with Seaspray. And didn't make fun of him behind his back," he added, sneaking a peek at Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who were almost in tears as they stifled their laughter, recalling the hilarity of that particular memory.

Springer wouldn't be outdone, even if he barely knew anything about what they alluded to. He had not been a part of Jazz's existence on this planet, and it made him feel like an outsider. Their stories, their jokes, their subtle expressions and their 'you had to be there' methods of story-telling (because none of this seemed funny to Springer, and he was a funny mech) were too much. He could make a great toast, one that would be touching and sweet. "To Prowl, who was a great leader and friend to everybody." He should have stopped there, but the noted absence of the most recently departed in their conversations lead the triple-changer to assume that he must have been a social pariah. Judging by said unmentioned Autobot's reaction to Prowl's death, the two must have had some kind of rapport. Autobots don't mourn over those they do not care for. Prowl's kindness should be mentioned. "Even Smokescreen."

It was as though someone had hit a 'pause' button. They stiffened, arms stuck in a position of disbelief as they stared at each other, waiting for a reaction.

Jazz tipped his head back and downed the entire contents in one gulp. Using that as their cue, the others cautiously took their libations, glaring over the rims at the interloper who had just committed the ultimate social faux pas.

Blaster did not drink. He glowered, mumbling something that sounded like "glitchy little kid."

He had to fix it. Somehow. "Hey Blaster?"

"What? Do you want to make a toast to Megatron?" This was met with nervous laughter.

That was uncalled for. "Can you play that song I was asking you about yesterday?

That would be the Beastie Boys 'So Whatcha Want?' He found the song and stood up, encouraging them to set down their beverages and dance. "Do the Meister!" the tape player called, breaking into a dance that Springer had never seen before. Obviously the rest of them had. Again, he had to be there. Jazz shook his body and called for another tune.

Springer felt himself being excluded from the group as they rushed around to form a dance circle. A large yellow shoulder rudely jostled him. "Good going, Dipstick," Sunstreaker sneered, low enough to be heard by only one mech.

* * *

She heard the noise and immediately regretted coming down this hallway: loud, obnoxious music and raucous laughter coupled with loud foot stamping and shouts. 

**  
"When you're creepin' up the backstairs /Mother's nightmares /Falling in the front door /My my /Climbing in the window /Get dressed, let's go /Take your brother's car keys /Bye bye!"**

In the doorway she caught a glimpse of whirling color. Blaster was spinning Jazz around him. Sunstreaker had managed to hoist First Aid's bottom half up - feet first - to kick his legs in the air. Hound got onto one knee, right leg at a ninety-degree angle from the left, and Sideswipe climbed onto that leg to Hound's shoulder to do a flip in the air before landing. The others were paired off in this strange pandemonium of what must be 'dancing,' except for Springer, who stood alone and perked up at the sight of his protégé gawking at them.

"Arcee!" he called eagerly, hurrying over. So far he was the only one who had noticed her. Slaggit, she should have gone the other way! Too late, she had to say hello. He grabbed her arm a little too roughly. "I have a HUGE favor to ask you, honey."

"If it involves going into that room and being nice to Blaster, forget it!" she retorted, struggling to break free. Springer had an unyielding grip. She had avoided Blaster ever since he bragged to everyone about how he 'scored' with her one Saturday night. She'd refused to associate with him after that.

Springer sighed. "Please. He's flirting with Jazz." His fingers were ten individual vices. "Keep him busy. He still likes you!"

Arcee gave him her fiercest scowl. After a few seconds she realized that this would not produce any result she desired. "Why am I always bailing you out?" she demanded.

The pinching grip he had on her relented immediately. "Because you love me," he cooed, kissing her cheek in that blasé way he loved to do whenever he got his way. She followed him into the room, plastering a fake smile on her face.

* * *

Arcee had just left the Main Control Room, where Kup had performed a 'key word' search on Smokescreen and found nothing of interest. When he did a search of Prowl, he had found nothing either, UNTIL... 

Until Kup read some seemingly unobtrusive meeting minutes. They hadn't said much, but they provided more than any other search: Prowl had announced he and Jazz had broken up.

Arcee didn't care. Kup was far too obsessed with the backstory of something that was inconsequential to their real lives. Wouldn't it make more sense to ask somebody who had experienced it?

"It would, but the only surviving Autobot who knew was Jazz, and he's part of the problem."

It was late. She was tired. "I'll ask him, then."

"No, forget it. You're right, it's not important." He had more pertinent news for her: tomorrow was Smokescreen's plaque dedication. It would be interesting. Like Perceptor's idea of good conversation. Kup, like any good warrior, did not like any ceremony that reminded him that he was one day closer to non-functioning status. When coupled with the monotony that was Autobot ceremony, there was NOTHING to look forward to, except that maybe there would be good energon afterwards.

* * *

Blaster let out a happy whoop at the sight of a lovely pink Autobot. "Check it out! Springer brought my boo. How ya doin' cutie?" The tape player abandoned his conversation with Jazz in favor of a much sweeter target. 

"I'm good, Blaster. You look great." She even HUGGED him! Primus bless Arcee. Springer owed her BIG TIME. Jazz didn't seem put-out by being discarded. He eased himself over to the twins and surreptitiously poured his beverage into their flasks unnoticed. Springer realized that he hadn't seen Jazz drink anything since the disastrous toast. Before he could comment on this, Jazz was asking Arcee if Rodimus had announced what time the ceremony would be tomorrow.

"He's been busy," she responded. "Kup told me it was nine."

Jazz nodded. Sideswipe suggested they go smash the plaque to pieces. Tracks, VERY drunk, liked that idea a lot. Jazz quashed that motion, declaring that he wasn't drunk enough. Tracks laughed and refilled both his container and Jazz's. Blaster, one arm wrapped around Arcee and the other reaching for a refill - which he promptly handed to her - began to play a song with a driving beat to it.

"**De-siiiiiiiiiire!"  
**  
It had a good rhythm. Sideswipe came over to dance with Springer but changed his mind when the triple-changer admitted that he didn't know how.

"That's cool," Jazz called, handing his full flask to an accepting Blaster. "I'll teach you." He grabbed Springer's hands and smiled charmingly. "Start with your right foot-"

Jazz moved his body with a kind of liquid sensuously, shaking everything he should at the perfect angle to catch the light and shine off of him. It sent a huge surge of lust through Springer, one that made him tremble. He wanted his fingers brushing across that set of blue and red stripes that graced Jazz's chestplate. He would give his helicopter blades to be able to run his hands down that back, and tickle those legs, and stroke those arms, and bury his head into that graceful neck -

"Hey. HEY!" Jazz snapped his fingers to get Springer's attention. "**YO!"**

How could he bring his optics up to meet that blank visor after more than likely showing his naked ambition? Springer tried to smile sweetly. "Sorry. Got lost in the music."

Jazz snorted. "Uh-huh. You're drunk."

That sounded like a good idea. Springer took a huge swig to prevent an embarrassing reply from escaping.

"Hey Jazz?" Sideswipe called from across the room. "This is boring! Let's do something!"

Jazz tore his steady visored gaze away from Springer's shy one, giving the triple-changer the opportunity to hide his emotions a little better. "What do you want to do?"

"Paintball!" Hound volunteer.

"NO!" shouted Sunstreaker and Tracks at the same time.

"Let's do a race!" Groove called.

"That's boring!" Slingshot sneered. "Why doesn't Streetwise pull people over, just to freak 'em out?"

"Did it," the Protectobot replied. "Then Ultra Magnus found out and told me he'd make me clean the brig with a toothbrush if I did it again." All five of the combiners turned to glare at Tracks, who was on his fifth drink that hour.

"Whaddya want me to do about it?" he snarled blearily, looking up and then back down into his glass. "I just fuck 'em."

"That picture's seared in my processor until I die," Hot Spot shuddered. "Anybody got any GOOD ideas?"

Springer wanted to prove that he was just as cool as they were, even if he was unfamiliar with the ways of these older Autobots. "I know where Shawn Berger is."

Arguing stopped that very minute. "Where?" Blaster challenged, letting go of Arcee as he moved forward.

Springer fought the urge to cower away from him and smiled. "I was an escort when they transferred him to a medium-security prison in California." Jerking his head towards the door, he bid them to follow. Teletraan-2 would have a map.

* * *

___"Where have you been?"_

___"The usual."_

___He always shrugs me off, as though answering a simple question, no matter how easy it would be to respond, is too much work._

___"You were hanging out with Blaster."_

___He stopped and considered this. When he does that I can see the inner machinations spinning as he debates whether or not he wishes to begin a fight with someone who already knows all of his tricks and will more than likely catalogue every single word uttered, to be thrown back at him at a later date. Then again, he does it too. He picked up the item he came in to retrieve without acknowledging me._

___"That's none of your damn business."_

___He's using Earth lexicon again, which means that he is eager to dismiss me via confusion. "I'm afraid that it IS my business, Jazz." With the touch of a button he saw what I've seen: a video recording of him reaching for Blaster and smothering him with the kind of affection he knows I'm not comfortable giving. We have had this discussion before: although I hold him in a high esteem, I am not the tactile being he wishes me to be. If he desires attention elsewhere he may, but he had promised to be discreet. This act was performed in a hallway in broad daylight, documented by Red Alert and sent to me. Did he have any idea how humiliating that was?_

___Jazz shrugged again, hoisting the large collection of his compact discs into subspace, where more than likely they will make a mess. "We've had this fight before, Prowl, and even though you said it wasn't a big deal you've been _**_making_**_ it a big deal. I told you to go ahead and do whatever you want, if it shuts you up. So go! Do it! I don't give a frag!" With that he flounced out the door, waving a hand dismissively._

___I stood by the recharge plate, shaking. This is not an isolated incident. Jazz has - with increasing frequency and intensity - demonstrated that as far as he is concerned, there is no point in our maintaining a healthy relationship with each other. His cavalier rejection of the basic mores of propriety has demonstrated that he no longer cheats on me to fulfill his needs, he cheats on me to escape. This is unacceptable._

___My communicator was paging my therapist before I processed what I was doing. "Smokescreen."_

___"Yes, Prowl?" His tone of voice alone is restfully placid. He speaks from a perspective of reason, of assessment. He has no chaos. The minute I connected with him over this radio my body responded, as did my spark. Our sessions have smoothed the choppy waves of discord regarding Jazz, making Smokescreen an invaluable balm to my inner conflict. As he always does, Smokescreen will help me change my perspective by challenging my methods of assessment. He has taught me many coping mechanisms and communication techniques, some of which are effective, some that are not. Mostly he has been empathetic, something even Optimus Prime can not do._

___Jazz would say 'Have ya got a sec?' I am not so crude. "I would like to speak to you at your earliest convenience."_

___"I'm available now. Is everything all right?"_

My sparkmate and I cannot stand to be in the same room with each other and my solution is – inevitably – to turn to you___The thought pops up and disquiets me, and logic dictates that I should avoid him, but the pull to be with this mech is too strong to ignore. "A minor inconvenience has...occurred..." I'm usually so articulate, but with Smokescreen I catch the Jazz part of me wanting to say 'ya know?' and 'um' and all of those other offensive terms. It seems so silly._

___"Come over, we'll talk about it," he offered warmly. I could hear his smile. It prompted me to do the same, although he cannot see me. It's somewhat disconcerting how someone other than Jazz can move me this way, but it makes sense that we get along so well. Smokescreen and I are so _similar_. He's a true friend._

* * *

They have two helicopters, three planes, a flying Corvette, and a boom box. If they take the highway they'll get there at six am. Sunstreaker began to whine about the poor road conditions, and how it's raining at the prison...couldn't they just have a race? 

"NO!"

* * *

He was close, Rodimus could tell. 

Swoop gasped and clawed and shook and whimpered and it was all Prime could do to keep from grinning in triumph as a soft blue light ruptured out of the Dinobot and he squeaked weakly. His head tilted back, optics dark, mouth tight, as wave after wave of light rippled and met with Rodimus' own, doubling the pleasure.

It just kept GOING. Rodimus could recall a time when one little spurt was all it took and he and Swoop were knocked out for the rest of the night. NOW this was time number three and the sensory overload oscillations grew in their potency with each encounter.

Swoop released one final wave, accompanied by a cry of over-stimulation, and collapsed onto Rodimus' desk in an unflattering heap. Prime gingerly lay on top, savoring the sounds of Swoop's inner workings. They rested for a moment before their position became too uncomfortable to enjoy.

"I've never done it with a movie star before," Rodimus teased as he resumed standing. Swoop smiled back weakly. He managed to heave himself upright, shaking out the cobwebs before grabbing Prime's hand.

"Time to sleep," Swoop announced. "That an order."

Primus DAMN IT that made him hot! Swoop did not usually take any type of authority over his Prime but when he did - in that special way, as though it were a private joke - it fired every circuit in Rodimus' body and made him want to subjugate the mech for taking that tone with him. "You did that on purpose," he growled as they sauntered out of his office. Chance number four seemed like a reality.

Swoop giggled innocently. "Prove it."

That did it. Rodimus had him pinned to the wall kissing him feverishly while Swoop continued to titter. "I'll show you who does what on purpose around here, you little-" loud inebriated voices halted his onslaught of affection.

"Blaster, this is CRAZY!"

"Your creator's so ugly when he went to the car wash it took 12 hours...for the quote!"

"Your creator's so stupid there's white-out on his monitor screen."

"Your creator's so stupid he studied for his brake test."

"Your creator's so greasy his paint slipped off!"

"You and Blades'll be back before anybody misses you."

"It's still nuts."

They turned a corner in time to see their Prime: arms crossed and glaring. (Swoop had ducked back into Rodimus' office.) "Where are you going?" he asked them. It didn't look good: they were armed with paintball guns, exploding darts, and at least two dozen water balloons that more than likely did not have water in them.

Springer's head popped up from behind the traffic pileup. "Heyyyyyy Roddy," he said, smiling too brightly. Arcee waved from her position alongside Blaster. "We were going to have a little fun in the backyard."

There were a million arguments for and against this potential train wreck. Rodimus got out his Prime Voice. "You would do better to have a little fun indoors, judging by the looks of things. Besides, it's one in the morning and we have a ceremony tomorrow."

Springer's face fell. "Oh. Are you sure? You could come with us."

"I'm sure. Put that stuff down and go recharge."

The rest of the group groaned, placing their weapons of mass annoyance onto the floor before turning back. Springer inched over to his former friend. "Is it all right if we just hang out in the gymnasium?"

Why wouldn't they go away? Swoop was waiting. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Thanks!" Jazz was nearby and heard, smiling. They could have gone back to the gym on their own anyway, but permission meant that they could be a whole lot louder without having to worry about Ultra Magnus trying to find enough toothbrushes in a short span of time.

He gave Springer a friendly shove and hurried to catch up with the others.

"Hey! guys!" Jazz made a whistling noise to get the dejected crowd's attention. "This way!"

They were sent in the exact opposite direction of the gymnasium, and the more curious Jazz's herd of Autobots got, the more excited they became, and the more excited they became, the goofier the corridor antics grew. The twins started gleefully running down the hall to see who could glide the farthest on their feet. The answer: not very. The tumbling mass of laugher rebounding off the walls was arrested by one look by Jazz.

"Hound," he began quietly. The crowd hushed each other, huddling close now that they saw their team leader was taking this seriously. Everyone but Springer. He was fascinated with Jazz's ability to change the disposition of a crowd with a hand twitch and a slight frown. Even Sideswipe wasn't grinning mischievously anymore. This black and white mech had an amazing magnetism that could more than likely move mountains. Jazz was amazing.

"I need you to conjure an image of Inferno for me. Can you do his voice?"

Hound chuckled broadly. "I can do anybody!"

"And the dents on his plate prove that!" Sunstreaker appended. Jazz allowed a smile, which gave permission for some quiet laughs.

* * *

So far it was a quiet night. Most Autobots were tucked away on their recharge plates, even Ultra Magnus the insomniac. Rodimus Prime, though, was laying across Swoop while he softly kissed him in a dizzying pace that had Red Alert in a yearning trance. A knock on the door made him jump. 

"Red? Are you in there?"

How did Inferno know when he wanted him? He didn't bother to suppress the dirty grin, opening the door to no one.

"Reeeeeeyeeeeed..." There he was, further down the hallway! It was a little game they played, more than once. Lustful expression obvious, Red Alert scampered off to hunt his favorite prey: fire truck.

* * *

Sideswipe did not take this well. All the well-timed distractions and elaborate pranks they'd formulated in the dripping dank basement of the Ark had just been nullified by the flash of Hound's hologram. How could such a puerile scheme accomplish where a well-choreographed fake Decepticon attack had failed? 

"Red ain't what he used to be," Jazz explained, once Sideswipe's obscenity-laced sputtering allowed him a word in edgewise. "The Cataclysm tore him up somethin' nasty."

Springer could recall when Jazz had told him about Red Alert's narcoleptic attacks and was opening his mouth to say as much when Jazz managed to crack the security code and fling the door open, ushering them all in. Instead of revealing that particular nugget of data, the triple-changer called to attention the smaller number of members in the congregation.

"The Protectobots got bored," Hound answered as the door closed behind him. "Blaster and Arcee left."

"You can see them right there," Tracks slurred, pointing to one of the hundreds of screens in front of them and losing his balance. Sunstreaker got out of his trajectory.

"Walk it off," he instructed him, inching towards another side. It allowed him a backward glance. "What are you staring at?"

The Aerialbots were gaping. "I have never seen anything so creepy in my life," Air Raid whimpered, fingers twitching nervously.

He had good reason. On one wall alone were more monitor screens than at a Best Buy. Twenty up, twenty across, each one blaring noise and flashes of color before changing to another camera - and that was only one portion of the wall.

"Holy slag! Why isn't Red Alert crazier than he is already?"

Sunstreaker shook his head. "You didn't know he did this? Frag, why do you think me & Sideswipe always got caught?" They had not discovered it until the day they landed on Moon 1 and became security guards themselves. The first thing they did was get Bluestreak - still at the Ark - to find Red's archives and blow them to smithereens. Then they spent a month in solitary, thanks to Prowl figuring out they were the masterminds behind this act. "Good times," he sighed.

Springer eyed the red and pink mass that was Blaster and Arcee as they wavered to and fro, from Camera 1 to Camera 2, before the camera filming changed. "Hey Jazz? Can you get them to stop jumping around so much?"

"No problem," he replied, pushing a few buttons. "Watch Blaster get shot down tonight, take two!"

Wait a minute...

* * *

Blaster tripped over his feet for the fifth time that hour. "I'm sorry. Man, I gotta quit asking Sideswipe to bring the booze! His shit will FUCK you UP!" 

Arcee nodded absently. They still had to get down this hallway. Thank Primus the stairs had been surmounted, that had been an ordeal she didn't want to do again. Springer OWED her!

"Honey," he began ruefully, trying to pitch himself into some kind of momentum, "I'm gonna have to take a rain check on whatever fun you had planned for us." She had planned on dumping him on his plate and letting his tapes deal with him. Still, she smiled sweetly and nodded, catching him on his descent.

Blaster's face grew serious as Arcee's ducked down to avoid what she knew was coming. "Who are you cheating on?"

That was NOT what she expected. "What?"

He clumsily brushed his fingers against her right shoulder, where Firestar's Autobot symbol gloomily frowned upon all. "You're wearing a Widow Tag but you're taking me home." She heard a 'click' noise as his thumb flicked the tip of his index, hitting the sour sigil's scowl.

"I'm helping you home," she corrected. He looked almost threatening.

"Good." To her relief, he changed proximity to better toddle forward. "You don't wear one of those unless you MEAN it."

She didn't have to be told that. Everyone knew that when an Autobot donned the red symbol of their departed loved one it meant that the deceased would NEVER be forgotten or dishonored, no matter what. There was no greater disgrace than tainting his/her memory. It was not a light load to carry, and the individual who put on the Widow Tag better damn well be determined to stick to that commitment. Blaster was serious; most Autobots erred on the side of NOT wearing one, preferring to grieve without public monitoring. Arcee had not been bonded, but the misery haunted her to the point that she considered herself a widow, and after an unbearable interlude of loneliness she'd dug it out of its hiding place and put it on. It helped ease the pain somewhat.

"'Cause lemme tell you, Jazz is goin' through the Pit with that right now, and this stupid crush of-"

the statement remained incomplete as the tape player tripped and fell, collapsing under his own weight and inebriation.

* * *

___JAZZ!_

___That would have woken him from a sound recharge...which it did._

___"Prowl?" he whispered. No one responded. Instead he was hit with an unbearable wallop of physical distress. OH PRIMUS - _

___He had been told that there is no pain quite as encompassingly brutal as that of half of your spark dying. They were sugarcoating it. Prowl was going into convulsions; the burning, the circuits over-firing, the melting of his insides, the smoke coming out of his mouth and optics, everything overheating - _

___JAZZ!_

___"PROWL!" He might have yelled it, he might have moaned it, who knows, there was so much hurting him that he couldn't process, let alone vocalize. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop PRIMUS MAKE IT- _

___I'm...sorry...tell him..._

___"I CAN'T," he howled. The burning was spreading up his torso and shorting unseen circuits. _**_Make it stop._**_ "Don't-"_

___Smokescreen - Jazz-_

___It stopped. Everything was black. The pain flipped off like a switch...and Prowl was dead. _

___Jazz, alone again, crawled out of his quarters to deliver the horrible message to Prime. It kept him from screaming._

* * *

"Tiiiiim-berrrrrr!" he called. Springer chuckled. He must have been the only one who heard it. 

Sunstreaker laughed, too. "Another one bites the dust!" So he HAD heard it. Jazz gave Springer a knowing look and smiled.

"Blaster fell?" Sideswipe asked, optics glued elsewhere. There were so many screens to choose from! Most of the Autobots were offline, but there were enough illicit activities to keep them interested. Perceptor, for one, was wide awake and messing around with what looked like some kind of green carpet. Red Alert had given up his chase and was outside of the Security Room door, his knocks ignored. He looked ticked. "Why aren't you guys watching Rodimus and the Dinobot?"

Arcee had run to Blaster's door and was returning with his tapes, who would help her bring him in. Nothing exciting there. Rodimus and Swoop, however, were clanking metal like a Detroit stamping plant.

"He's gonna be bent outta shape tomorrow," Tracks slurred. He seemed to be getting more energized the longer they stood there.

Jazz glanced at Springer. How was he taking the love of his life making out with someone else? Pretty well.

"He finally found somebody right for him," was all he said.

Sunstreaker commented on their technique. Sideswipe asked the Aerialbots what they thought. All three of them (the other two had refused to come) had been uncharacteristically silent the whole time.

"This is too weird. We're watching our Prime..." Air Raid couldn't finish his thought. Hound did.

"There's nothing wrong with a good windshield bump."

"This one isn't good. If Rodimus taught himself he's a lousy student." Tracks' optics were SWIMMING. How had he managed to walk down the hallway earlier? "Maggie didn't teach him at all."

"Maggie's awake!" Sideswipe's wandering attention span had been a boon to them at last: Red Alert had correctly assumed that whoever was in the Security room would require more than one Autobot to discipline him. He'd gone to the only higher authority figure not kissing Swoop's neck or watching it happen.

Tracks staggered for the door. "I'll handle this. You guys get going."

Jazz quickly hustled them all out.

* * *

He was up ahead, leaning against the wall for support and giving the aura of helplessness a rat about to be devoured by a snake might have. Ultra Magnus knew better than that. 

"Where are they?" he demanded gruffly. He'd been dreaming about a new set of tires and was about to hit a patch of ice when Red Alert banged down his door and told him that chicanery was going on in the Security Room. Heaving himself off of his plate, the larger carrier took off with his intruder hurrying behind. Where was Rodimus? Not to be disturbed. Kup? On patrol. Jazz? Springer? Red Alert gave him a LOOK.

"Where are who?" Tracks could never pull off the 'innocent' face. Ultra Magnus had caught him practicing in front of a mirror once.

Red Alert rushed around him into the room and wholeheartedly threw himself into hysterics. "THEY MESSED WITH MY SCREENS!"

"We were just having a little fun. Which reminds me..." Tracks leaned into his commanding officer and lost his balance, only to be rescued by strong arms that melted a little when they could embrace their favorite mech. He'd had too much energon, which meant his field was ripe and over-sensitive and giving off sparks that felt as delightful as happy confetti. "You should have taken some time to teach Hot Rod a thing or two on the plate. He's awful."

"THEY DID WHAT!?!?!" Red screamed, coming back outside. "THEY'VE COMPROMISED THE SECURITY OF THE ENTIRE BASE!!"

Ultra Magnus placed a hand over his optics and tried not to let the effervescent Tracks slip out of his grasp at the same time. The Corvette rotated to face the outside and rubbed up against him with a slight metallic squeak. It didn't help at all that Tracks had found Ultra Magnus' middle finger and was using it to rub the yellow square on his chest in attention-grabbing circles. It ruined any concentration dredged up for being awoken in the middle of the night.

"You have footage of it, so you know who did it...it's almost two am...and you've apprehended ONE of the culprits. Why don't you punish the others tomorrow?" Ultra Magnus had watched the lips move but had almost no idea what was being said, thanks to the ever-growing distraction of his tingling hand. Tracks had a gloss on him that made rubbing his chestplate like stroking a cat. It was so yielding and smooth and he was - he was revving his engine a little, so that the vibrations carefully hummed around Ultra Magnus' armor and hit some very soft spots, and when coupled with the energy field sparks it was impossible to process anything other than **I want that.** Red Alert's furious outrage melted in dawning comprehension of what Tracks was offering in lieu of justice and he caught the bawdy wink with enough time to gasp before the Corvette pulled away from Ultra Magnus' ever-tightening grip to drunkenly saunter away. "I can be disciplined now, or whenever. I'm going to bed."

He had to follow him. His hand continued to tickle, and besides, those perfect gray legs had to be admired from the back, and Ultra Magnus was the mech to do it. Red Alert superfluously announced a concession and hurried back into the security room to adjust his monitors.

* * *

Tracks passed the door way to an empty room and counted down from four. Three...two...one... 

Nothing. Odd. Was Ultra Magnus still behind him?

Crash.

Yep. Instead of pulling him into an abandoned room he picked him up and threw him against the wall. "I bet you think you're smart," he growled.

He was so close and yet so incredibly far away. A few more inches and they could be hammering this difficulty out in a much more pleasant manner. "I AM smart. I have you to escort me home so that I won't get assaulted on my way to my chambers."

He just HAD to say that in a sexy voice while stroking Ultra Magnus' antennae. "Well you're NOT, because you are in for an attack you won't forget."

Tracks tilted his head up to allow the wave of energy field better access and tried to make an appealing face for the ceiling camera pointed right at them.

* * *

"Are you awake?" 

Arcee sat up in the darkness and nodded, her optics shining in the dark. "Go ahead, turn on the light."

"That's okay, I'm fine." Springer's energon buzz had worn off awhile ago. He carefully climbed onto the plate and rested on his side, pulling her to him.

"I thought you said we were too old for this," she protested weakly. In Arceespeak this meant 'I would have called you within the hour if you hadn't come over here.'

"We're only as old as we feel," Springer replied, which meant 'It's that kind of night...I needed it, too.'

Autobot Mentors had to teach whatever their pupil's programming left out, which included giving and receiving affection. While most were not supposed to cuddle with their protégé after a certain level of instruction, someone must not have passed that memo to Arcee and Springer. They had done this for longer than anyone should have, and for some reason resumed it after the Cataclysm. It just felt better to have someone to share going offline.

"What happened?" she asked. That translated to: 'I don't want to talk about what happened to me.'

"The party broke up." That of course meant 'I don't either.'

"What's Jazz doing?" 'I thought he needed you.'

"He said he had some business with Perceptor." That was equivalent to 'He told me to get lost.' Springer shifted onto his back and wrapped an arm around her as she laid her head on his shoulder. "Nothing important." Guess what that meant? 'Nothing important.'

"Oh." :'I wish he'd tell you whether or not he wants to be more than friends, since you both act like you're desperate for a moment alone with the other but never do anything about it when you ARE. Why don't you say something to him? ANYTHING?'

Springer leaned over and gave a platonic kiss. :'He's bonded to somebody else. If he wants to dishonor that bond with me, then HE has to be the one to do it. If I come forward I'll just be forcing him to confront the issue and I'll lose another best friend. Besides, you told me that I needed to stop being so pushy, so that's what I'm going to do. I'd rather be his best friend than find out that he likes me but will never start something, and that if he doesn't feel comfortable hanging around me once the issue is out in the open, I'm out of luck. Then I'll just have YOU, and that's not fair to you.'

Arcee smiled softly. "Good night." :'You'll always have me. I just hope things work out for you a little better.'

"Good night." :'Thanks. Even if they don't, it's still pretty good around here.'

* * *

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were annoyed. Jazz had gone soft lately. They hadn't done any types of pranks at ALL, and now they were going to get into trouble for messing with Red Alert. **LAME!**

"We might as well go whole tractor and do something fun," he grumbled. Sunstreaker asked him what he had in mind, to Sideswipe's delight.

"Remember all that stuff we saved from Spike's bachelor party?"

* * *

Perceptor nodded towards the green pile by the door. "They are complete." Instead of a lengthy but fascinating account of how he grew them, the scientist returned to his experiment. Jazz lingered, somewhat disappointed that he would not be delayed from this odious task. Oh well. 

He stacked the pieces onto a pallet resting on a remote-controlled forklift and trudged outside.

* * *

"Is everyone assembled?" Rodimus murmured to Ultra Magnus. 

It was a stupid question. After all, they'd been staring at their Prime for at least five minutes, waiting for him to announce that the procession would begin. Ultra Magnus confirmed it anyways. He looked as exhausted as Rodimus felt. They were always worse for wear the morning after reuniting with their loved ones, but Ultra Magnus usually at least TRIED to look presentable. Just look at Tracks: he was glowing.

That wasn't all of his trouble, though. When Swoop had tried to sneak out of Rodimus' quarters this morning he squawked at what awaited him outside.

"What the-" Rodimus' head twisted every which way, taking it all in. There were odd-shaped balloons everywhere of festive colors and textures fastened to the doors, walls, and ceiling; an inflatable man was kneeling behind an inflatable sheep in the middle of the hallway; the walls were smeared with oils that puzzled their olfactory sensors and spelled words that were dirtier than a slag pit; a few vibrating machines buzzed with no way to stop them and - most offensive -someone had found some of that fan art that depicted Rodimus and Swoop performing biologically impossible acts on each other and blown it up to banner-sized proportions. Furious, he'd torn down the pictures and popped the balloons and radioed Red Alert, who reviewed the tapes and told him the obvious: Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Rodimus couldn't exclude them from the procession, but when he got his hands on them later...

He turned to Jazz. "Are you ready?"

"I told you Prime, he wasn't my friend." Jazz seemed unusually cranky for nine am. "If anybody should be leading this parade, it's Sunstreaker."

Sunstreaker denied it. He and Smokescreen had fooled around, on and off, but nothing serious. The maroon Datsun was a loner. Sighing, Rodimus Prime called for them to transform and roll out. It had rained earlier that morning, making the road to the Memorial Garden a little slick; the processional went a little slower than usual.

Per the deceased's request, the Autobots cranked their CD players to War's "Low Riders."

"Awww yeah," Sideswipe said, smiling to himself. "Smokey's favorite driving song. Good times." Sunstreaker had a pleasant memory or two attached to the song, too.

Jazz had a completely different retrieval cue.

* * *

___Manhattan traffic is NOT the worst on the planet. The natives would like to think that it is, as the solipsists who live there will tell you, but anyone who's been to Hong Kong, London, or New Delhi would attest...New York wasn't bad. Jazz got through the Lincoln tunnel and midtown traffic in a few hours less than expected and rolled into Sparkplug's garage while the sun was still up._

___Raul was on the phone and the computer, hastily typing as he spoke. The new girl, Mikaela (so her nametag said) stood behind him, mouth slightly open in confusion. The minute Jazz transformed, Raul hung up the phone and hurried out._

___"You made it!" Raul looked so much OLDER now. Perhaps it was the child beside him, but more than likely it was because Jazz could not become inured to how fast the physical appearances of humans transformed._

___"Hey Raul." They slapped palms and Jazz shook hands with Mikaela, allowing conversational pleasantries to meander before asking about the bodies._

___"Tracks and Smokey put 'em in the back." Raul jerked his head towards the back, where the rest of the makeshift Autobot headquarters stood. "You go ahead, Mikki's got a transmission to change and I gotta call my supplier."  
_  
_Jazz walked through large metallic doors to the back room and came upon row after row of mangled Autobot bodies...and Tracks bent over the hood of a Nissan Sentra like Frankenstein over his monster. His small gray aft vibrated with the drill, stopping only when he turned it off. He didn't look behind him, reaching for air._

___"Smokescreen, can you hand me the monkey wrench? It's on the pegboard by the door."_

___"No problem," Jazz replied as he plunked the tool into the outstretched hand. Tracks let out a happy exclamation, hit his helmethood on the car's hood getting up, and gave the Porsche a bear hug. Jazz was glad to see somebody who didn't have either a Thousand-Yard Stare or was sobbing uncontrollably; he had held it in for so long he was sick of seeing anyone who couldn't. Tracks could smile genuinely, since he hadn't been there._

___"How's the new guy?" Tracks asked in a low voice. He was one of the many Autobots who was not happy with the revelation of their new Prime._

___"He's okay. Not a bad leader." Jazz hadn't come all this way for a social call. He could see only half of the casualties. "Where are the rest?"_

___The Corvette's look of disgust melted into unease as the subject changed. "Next door. I should tell Smokescreen you're here."_

___Jazz gestured to the table at Optimus Prime's feet. "Is that Prowl's stuff over there?" When a mech died their subspace compartment became accessible. Being his bondmate, Jazz was entitled to whatever was in there, a small comfort._

___"Yeah, all the stuff on the small table's yours," Tracks called as he hurried out._

___When he returned Tracks continued to look uncomfortable. Jazz was pushing the small array of meaningless objects around, a frown of perplexity adorning his face._

___"Tracks, are you sure this is everything? There's a few things not here that are on the inventory list."_

___"Inventory list?" Tracks replied, looking suspiciously baffled. Jazz crossed his arms and glared._

___"Yeah. Prowl kept an inventory of everything he owned. Every time we moved or he got rid of stuff, he changed the list. I have the last one he made before he...where's the pot?" He still couldn't say it. 'Died.' It shouldn't be that fraggin' hard, but somehow it was._

___Tracks gave him a blank stare._

___"Uh-huh. And while you've been keeping me here Smokey's had time to hide it-" Jazz dashed out of the room to run next door, flinging himself in to a well-staged scene._

___Smokescreen, facing the door, looked over in startled annoyance at the interruption. He was working on an Astro Minivan on a lift. The radio on a nearby shelf played classic rock. "Low Riders." On the table to his left was Prowl. Jazz forgot his anger at the sight of his beloved._

___"Holy..." he breathed, awestruck. Prowl looked as though he'd just walked out of the factory; gleaming and glowing with an alabaster and onyx purity often reserved for religious sculptures or auto shows. Jazz had heard the reports. Hell, he'd FELT the wounds. He knew what Prowl should look like, and whoever had put him back together had lovingly restored him to perfection, complete with the soft upward curve he had when he was offline. They'd even painted a new Autobot symbol on him, to replace the old one now adorning Jazz's shoulder. Prowl looked better than he did the day he boarded the spaceship, when he'd turned to Jazz, mid-stride, and told him to throw out the Pokemon card collection while he was gone or when he got back he'd__** burn**__ the whole blasted amalgam. Jazz had stuck his tongue out in response. The silent figure before him brought this memory back with a sharp prick of guilt. He'd set those damn things on fire tonight._

___"I found an '83 280ZX on ebay," Smokescreen announced. "For parts. Anything else I had to make myself."_

___"It's ama-awe-fant-beaut-" he couldn't contain himself. "Prowlie-bot," he whimpered, ignoring the tears coming out of the corners of his visor as he collapsed onto the table, hugging the body before him. Smokescreen looked away, trying to regain his own control._

___"I know we're supposed to let them go in the condition we found them, but I couldn't. I didn't want everyone to see him looking like that. I wanted them to see what...we see."_

___"We?" Jazz had found the gasoline to fuel his rage. "WE?" It gave him the strength to get up and spin around to face his worst enemy. "Since when were you a part of WE? There is no WE. He may have liked you better but he loved his sense of honor a slaggin' heap more than either of us and when all was said and done it was him and __**me**__, not WE. What did you do with the pot?"_

___Smokescreen staggered backwards, completely taken aback by the venom spewed at him. "He liked me better?"_

___There was nothing left for him to be tolerant about. Patience was Prowl's forte, not Jazz's. The Porsche struck like a Viper, throwing Smokescreen face first onto the floor and twisting his arm behind him as hard as he could. "Do you know what I did before I became a saboteur? I was an interrogator. A damn good one, too. Soundwave had a mouth when I met him. He didn't when I was done. __**Where's the pot?**__"_

___"I don't have it!" he screamed. Jazz torqued that arm so hard he heard things crack. That felt good. Smokescreen cried out and twitched. He did it again, tighter. He'd wanted to hurt this being for so long, but Prowl had stood in the way-_

___"What are you DOING?" Tracks bellowed, Raul running up behind him._

___Jazz's voice was light, as though he were explaining a prank. "Smokey took somethin' of mine. I want it back."_

___"I don't have it!" Smokescreen moaned, barely heard with his face down. His knees scraped the floor as his body jerked with spasms._

___Tracks pulled Jazz to climb off of the Datsun. "I'm calling Cosmos and getting you the __**frag**__ out of here!" he thundered. Who knew he had that kind of authority in him? "Smokescreen doesn't have your drugs."_

___The Porsche cracked up. "I meant a FLOWER pot, slagheap."_

___"Oh." Somewhat flustered, Tracks lost some of his assertiveness. "You came here to load the bodies up for the funeral barge, so go do it. Leave the rest of us alone." He watched Smokescreen slowly rise to his feet, arm inactive. It had been the one that had been put out of commission several years ago, before being repaired. It always gave Smokescreen trouble. Jazz knew how to hurt, that was for sure. He proved it before he stomped out._

___"I'll tell Ultra Magnus you said 'hi,' Tracks." He didn't wait for the flinch from the Corvette._

___Tracks took his irritation out on Smokescreen. Raul and Mikaela hurried out to avoid the fireworks. "Primus-dammit, what's so important about a stupid pot?" he snarled, pulling Smokescreen's arm closer to evaluate the damage. It looked like one of the rotary cuffs would need replacement. They didn't have that kind of part here!_

___"It's not the pot," Smokescreen grunted, trying to stifle the blade of pain that sliced at him whenever Tracks touched the arm. "It's what was IN it that counts."_

* * *

At the Memorial Gardens the Autobots transformed to walk in, past the other plates and obelisks that adorned the lush greenery. There was Mirage, who'd died in the same explosion that took Elita-1, Skyfire, and Chromia, among others. There was Lyra, and Moonracer, and Ironhide, all clumped together even though they hadn't been destroyed at the same time. They all had obelisks for dying on Cybertron, as was custom. Jazz had no problem with Prowl having a small plaque because it seemed more dignified, simpler. That was Prowl's style. Jazz used to joke that he wanted a big gold statue when he kicked the bucket. Times sure have changed. They could throw him in a river, if that was what worked, he didn't care. 

Springer came up beside him but didn't say a word. It was a short jaunt to the site, not much further in than any of the other plaques. Still, people remarked about it's location. Jazz didn't allow himself to react to their commentary. Springer glanced at him, once, just to see how he was bearing all of this, but Jazz didn't need Springer's concern. His presence was nice, though.

Rodimus Prime stood before the cloth-covered object and waited for the buzzing to die down before he would speak. He looked out at all of them, his Autobots. His army. He was in charge, whether he wanted to be or not, and he had to pretend he knew what he was doing and what was going on at all times, but that was nearly impossible. Out of the corner of his optic he saw the Dinobots and Swoop. Sludge carefully put his right hand at his side so that Snarl could reach over to grab it. It made Prime think of all of the secrets each one of them had, of how they concealed so much of themselves to the point that there was nothing much to show except for a shiny facade, a form so unlike themselves that the true being inside was only seen if the cover was reconfigured.

He'd been staring too long again. Rodimus Prime raised his vocalizer volume. "Would anyone like to say a few words?" he asked.

___"You're _supposed to say a few words," Ultra Magnus hissed nearby, head bent at a respectful bow as was custom.

Rodimus Prime waved his arms in exasperation. "I didn't know the guy!" He turned to his congregation, who were in various levels of astonishment. Rodimus had no knowledge of Prime protocol, and for the members of the Old Guard this protestation was especially untoward. "Did ANYBODY know him?"

Ultra Magnus resisted the impulse to knock his Prime upside the head and succeeded, with difficulty. "If I may..." he began. Rodimus Prime nodded his head eagerly, yielding the floor to his underling. "Smokescreen was a part of my reconnaissance troop in the Mekong Delta after the first wave of specialists had been sent to earth." Tracks, Red Alert, Inferno, and a few others nodded in recognition. "We found Omega Supreme buried under a giant mountain of what used to be an old factory. Smokescreen was obedient, efficient, and a good soldier." Ultra Magnus stood aside, satisfied that he had something better than whatever Rodimus would have thought up. Kup shook his head. This was almost as bad as Drill Bit's funeral...

"Anyone else?" Rodimus asked.

Perceptor opened his mouth and thought better of it. Blaster squirmed. Jazz remained as solid as a rock, refusing to move or give any kind of reaction, even when the green mech beside him stared for a good five minutes before doing a double take.

"Where's your Widow Tag?" he whispered.

Jazz ignored him. Sunstreaker was making his way to the front of the crowd, looking contemptuous of everyone around him.

"None of you knew him, did you? He was a damn good card player. Really funny. He liked earth rock music after being in a band. I bet you didn't know that! He was lousy in the plate but had a decent set of doors-"

"Thank you, Sunstreaker," Rodimus replied, shoving him out of the way. "Anybody else?"

Perceptor came over, to the loud groans of the entire audience. "Never mind," he capitulated, resentfully returning to his place.

Rodimus shot his fifth appealing look to Jazz, who remained obdurately inert. Giving up, he stared off into space and began a speech in his Prime voice. "Autobots. The purpose of this ceremony is to honor one of our fallen comrades. What has been demonstrated today is that Smokescreen, like his namesake, shrouded his life behind a wall that very few of us were allowed a glimpse. It is disappointing how few of us knew him, and even more so for those who do and have nothing to say that a casual acquaintance would not. Today...I want you to think about the mark you have left on this army. When you join The Matrix, who will mourn you? Would you appreciate the pathetically sparse commentary that we have heard today?" He was looking right at Jazz again, who had stiffly crossed his arms and put on a tight false smile. "Smokescreen was an Autobot. He had flaws like the rest of us, but he was committed to the cause and worked just as hard as the rest of us. What you might not have known was that he had an amazing capacity for understanding what someone needed and helped them find a way to get it. A power like this is easily exploited, and he did not." Jazz snorted audibly enough to merit more than one Autobot turning around to find the source of it. "While his absence may not be noted by the current army, it IS a tragedy that yet another spark has been needlessly cut down at the hands of the Decepticons." He turned around and gave Kup and Blurr a nod. "Today I present the newest addition to our Memorial Garden." The white cloth pulled back to show a simple plaque on a smooth gray stone with dignified raised letters. "We honor Smokescreen: Autobot Diversionary Tactician; friend. 'Til all are one."

"'Til all are one," the others chorused, giving a salute and bowing their heads for a moment.

* * *

"What would you do if I died?" Ultra Magnus asked. They were lying on their plate, both too exhausted to move after Predaking unsuccessfully attempted to trample Düsseldorf. 

Tracks didn't hesitate. "Spend every functioning moment building a shrine in your honor."

"Be serious," Ultra Magnus complained. He wondered if Tracks knew that HE had built a shrine when he thought his Corvette had been destroyed and was making fun of him, or he was just being his flippant self.

After a very long pause Tracks sat up and moved over, placing a hand onto Ultra Magnus' face, looking down into his perfect luminous blue optics. "I try not to think about it. When it happens, it happens. Maybe I'll throw myself onto the bier with you." He allowed a wan smile. "Maybe I won't care, like Jazz."

"Jazz cared," Ultra Magnus objected.

"No he didn't," Tracks sneered, lying back down. "The only thing that ever bothered him was the blow to his ego when Prowl left him for somebody else."

* * *

Springer had the late shift that night. The Predacons might try for a second attack, or Galvatron might begin a new project; one never knew with him. Blaster had left a few minutes ago after smiling and shaking his head at Springer's 'what was up with that service?' question. 

"Springer, I know you're sick of hearing it, but you had to be there," he replied apologetically. "It won't make sense if I tell you, 'cause even I don't know the whole story. The only dude who knows everything is Jazz, and he ain't talking."

He was right, Springer WAS tired of being told that none of it made sense unless you were Jazz. As he typed away at the monitor to reconfigure Sky Spy's magnification lens trajectory he heard the door open. He turned to greet a stone-faced Jazz.

"Rough day?" was the only thing he could think of asking. Jazz nodded curtly. Springer motioned for him to take a seat and turned back to the monitor, determined to not say anything else unless postulated. This not being pushy technique was HARD.

"How weird has it been for you?" Jazz finally blurted after a half an hour on uncomfortable silence. It startled the triple-changer beside him enough to request further elaboration.

"Your life in general, how weird? Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I've battled Starscream's ghost, so...yeah," Springer replied, more on edge than before.

"Spark embodiments?" Jazz had his feet propped up and his hands behind his head but the intensity of Ultra Magnus on his more philosophical bends.

"What's that?"

"Long story. Primus?"

"The bringer of Chaos exists, so I'd better believe in Primus. Why?" Springer stopped what he was doing to face his friend.

Jazz paused, silent again in contemplation of whether or not to reveal his complete train of thought. He fidgeted but could not come up with anything other than "Just asking."

A long time ago, when he had just begun to get to know Jazz and his strange bouts of moodiness, Springer had asked Bumblebee why their most senior officer had willingly demoted himself and hidden from the battle for so long. Bumblebee had frowned and gave him an enigmatic reply.

"Jazz is...complicated."

This was obviously one of his more convoluted moments. All he was there for was company and if he wanted more he would ask for it, Springer supposed, turning back to his work.

Jazz leaned over, black hand squashing green. "Prowl and I planted Cloudstreaker outside of The Ark before we took off for Cybertron…" He trailed off and didn't say anything else, preferring to let his visor light get fuzzy and soft, making Springer's urge to grab Jazz's hand and put it up to his own face harder to ignore. He tried a distraction instead.

"Cloudstreaker? Did you build someone with him?" A loud beeping frustratingly interfered with their tête-à-tête, indignantly announcing that the alarm had higher priority. "I hate to interrupt you, Jazz...but we got bogies at ten o'clock!"

Rodimus Prime bolted into the room and demanded a status report.

"Decepticons! And lots of 'em!" Metroplex's screen was peppered with the devils. "Protectobots, lock and load," Springer called into the intercom. Jazz stood up, waiting for orders. Rodimus seemed busy calculating.

"Springer, radio the Aerialbots in from the north Atlantic and get Ultra Magnus out of bed. Has Kup come in from patrol yet?" Galvatron had opened fire, his Sweeps circling around like an angry hornets nest. "Jazz, you get to the north tower and warm up auxiliary artillery!"

Jazz and Springer snickered.

"What? Oh," Rodimus chuckled, too. "Yeah, it sounds funny. Now get out of here."

Jazz raced out. Ultra Magnus ran in. "What are they doing?"

"From the looks of things..." Rodimus waited for Springer to punch a few buttons. "They're going after Tower Two. Springer, call up Blurr and tell him to get that Cybertonium out as fast as he can!"

The last reserves of refined Cybertronium...Galvatron must be hunting for it. It explained why he went after Düsseldorf. They had just relocated it all from the German city to Tower Two yesterday, and a spy had obviously given away the newest location.

"Blurr!" Springer yelled, getting no response. "Come in, Blurr!"

"Right here reporting for duty-" Blurr appeared in the control room from out of nowhere, making everyone jump. "I just put all the Cybertonium in the bunker under Tower Five, so what do you need?"

Rodimus laughed. Now that it had been emptied of Cybertonium, Tower Two was an extraneous piece of Metroplex not utilized when he transformed; therefore, it was nonessential. Highly flammable, too. "Anybody still in there?" he asked.

"Nope, just Decepticons now and before that there was just me and I took care of everything since I assumed this was situation 57 like we agreed on so-"

Rodimus knew better than to wait for Blurr to cease on his own accord. "Go ahead and push the button, Springer!"

* * *

The Deceptions were furious that they'd been trapped in a towering inferno, and made enough blistering comments towards the army shooting at them to scorch the audios of even the jaded Kup. "I think they were mad," the old soldier commented wryly. 

"That means they'll be back," Bumblebee protested.

"Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt," Powerglide snorted.

* * *

Once things had settled down again, the Aerialbots and the Technobots were assigned to monitor Galvatron's furious pouting on Charr, the Protectobots and the Dinobots were clearing out the rubble that used to be Tower Two, and Springer's shift had ended. 

From what he had gathered, the Jazz/Prowl story line wasn't that tangled to him. They'd gotten tired of each other, dated other people, and gotten back together. One odd tidbit: Red Alert told him that when Prowl was alone in his office, he'd pull something out of his subspace compartment and place it on his desk.

"What was it?" Springer asked.

"Bluestreak destroyed my archives," he said bitterly. "But from what I can remember it was a toy."

Well, that was odd.

* * *

___Jazz stood up to admire his handiwork. "Not too shabby!" he exulted._

___Prowl, arms crossed, thought that Cloudstreaker veered a little to much to the left, and said as much._

___Jazz came over to stand next to him, mimicking Prowl's introspective pose as they regarded the cactus. "She's always leaned a little. It's the way she grew."_

___"I suppose she'll grow out of it," Prowl assented. His optics fell on the earthenware container she had resided in. "What shall we do with the pot?"_

___"Since we can't take __**her**__ with us to Cybertron, I guess we can take __**it**__." Jazz leaned over and scooped it up, shaking out the remnants of soil that had been on the bottom. "When I get tired of holding it, I'll give it to you."_

___"That sounds fair." Cloudstreaker had grown over the years, flowering in the spring and shooting up so fast that every time they turned around she needed a new vase. This one had held her the longest, though. Jazz had found it in a gift shop in South Dakota when they were defending Mount Rushmore and immediately bought it with the last of their money. It was white clay with a decreasing intensity of blue from top to bottom. After the glaze set in, Lakota craftspeople carved triangles into it, giving a stark contrast between the ever darkening color and white designs. Although time had scuffed it and chipped it the color lasted._

___Even so, Prowl was glad Jazz had custody first. The paint had not dried on his own stored totem reminder._

* * *

"Well, Ah don't know anything about that," Inferno speculated. "You wanna ask Tracks." 

Springer suppressed a groan. Ultra Magnus needed volunteers for a patrol and he'd been trying to avoid that particular corner of Metroplex all day. Unfortunately, his need for information outweighed his inclination to avoid ugly assignments. The triple-changer rapped on the door.

"Who is it?" a deep voice sleepily demanded.

Slag. "It's Springer, Ultra Magnus. I'm looking for Tracks."

"He's not here. In five seconds, YOU won't be here."

"Leaving!" he called. At least he didn't get drafted.

* * *

_With a loud CLANK and some shuffling and readjustment Jazz settled back onto his side of the recharge plate that held both him and the awkwardly reinstated Prowl._

_"Why we did not consider doing this before is beyond me," the Datsun commented._

_"Probably because we couldn't stand to be within five klicks of each other," Jazz supposed, chuckling. He could say that. He could say anything he wanted to and Prowl would understand. Why HADN'T they thought of doing this before?_

_After Smokescreen had chased them away from his doorstep Jazz led a tearful Prowl back to their chambers. He cautiously held his hand and brought him in, wondering what they were going to do first, now that this delicate eggshell of a partnership had been re-forged after nearly two years of being apart from each other._

_Prowl knew what to do. He walked into Jazz's arms and embraced him. "I want to reaffirm my commitment to you," he stated earnestly, resting his head on Jazz's shoulder._

_"You want to merge sparks again?" This was not necessary; once was fine. Prowl wanted to anyway._

_It was **exactly **what they needed. Once Jazz and Prowl's sparks linked together their fragile, awkward reunion no longer seemed like two confused refugees in a strange land clinging to each other because they happened to speak a similar language. Upon sharing their minds and souls Jazz understood Prowl's perspective, because he now HAD Prowl's perspective. It all made perfect sense: what had happened, and why, and when it mixed with Jazz's viewpoint, a happy understanding emerged and all sins were absolved from their collective unconscious. They did not have to unearth the rotting corpses of their outlooks when the ghost itself resided in them. Primus, they didn't even have to apologize!_

_The only thing that was bad was sensing what Prowl felt for Smokescreen. Prowl genuinely respected and held a deep affection for the mech. Jazz had used and tossed out the Autobots (and one VERY confused Mixmaster) he wanted, considering them entertainment, but Prowl adored Smokescreen. That had shaken the Porsche to his very core._

_"Jazz..." Prowl began. He was going to talk about Smokey, since he had felt the hurt Jazz experienced._

_"I don't want to hear it," Jazz replied. "Not because I don't want to talk about it, but I already know what you're going to say." Prowl knew that. Their connection was still buzzing around inside of them despite their uncoupling a few minutes ago. "I'm gonna beat him into the pavement."_

_"Jazz!" Prowl cried in a shocked voice. He had felt the thought before it was uttered, but had hoped it wouldn't come out._

_"I mean it, Prowlie-bot. If he comes anywhere near you I'll rip his fraggin' arm off."_

_Prowl pulled his bondmate, who seemed to be a humming electric ion extravaganza due to his spark touching the Datsun's, closer. "Leave him alone. I will, too."_

_That was all he needed to hear. "Am I forgiven?" Jazz asked him, impishly cute when he wanted to be._

_For some reason it was a great relief to utter it, like the favorite line of a favorite movie. "Baby...I will always forgive you."_

_"Don't stop believin'," Jazz replied, leaning in to kiss him. They hadn't really touched that much during the spark bonding. Jazz wanted to take in his sparkmate completely, savoring every last piece of this sorely missed body. "I didn't."_

* * *

Springer found Tracks down by what used to be Tower Two, digging through the rubble with the air of one _grievously_ inconvenienced. He brightened at Springer's appearance. 

"Have you got a minute?" the triple-changer asked.

"Help me move this rubble and I might give you a minute and a half," Tracks invited saucily.

Springer thought about it, and after a moment joined the Corvette in scooping up the metal, cement, and other flotsam that piled up after the explosion. There was nothing easy about it, thanks to all of the jagged edges and random pieces of junk. Dust puffed up like giant clouds of tear gas.

"I have to say, blowing up this tower was not one of Rodimus' more intelligent impulses," Tracks groaned, straightening his back and shoulders to re-align the plates. One leg, casually bent, rested on a higher pile than the other. He rested his arms on that knee and looked around at the span of mess. "He must have thought it would look cool."

How could Ultra Magnus stand this mech for longer than three seconds? "It chased off the Decepticons and took out a few Sweeps."

Tracks snorted.

"It was a good plan!" Springer protested. "And it _did_ look cool."

The Corvette, amused, shook his head. "How do you stay so irritatingly cheerful?"

"I just watched The Price is Right," Springer replied, moving another enormous chunk of concrete. "Nobody can see that show and be grumpy."

"That's true. It also explains where my help went: the Dinobots never miss it." Tracks pointed to the lumbering giants as they returned to trundle load after load of garbage away on large carts. This subject had run its course, however. "But you didn't come here to discuss the merits of having your pet spayed or neutered. What's up?"

Springer checked to see who was nearby. Nobody. He leaned in to keep an audible but low volume. "You talk to Ultra Magnus. What happened with Jazz, Prowl and Smokescreen?"

* * *

___One of the nicer things about Optimus Prime was that no matter the situation or setting one could say anything and it did not surprise him, and even if it did, he never showed. Prowl got as close as he could to the three-dimensional statue of Elita-1 standing on Prime's shelf of personal aspects and somehow worked it into the conversation._

___"Who made this likeness for you?" He asked, deducing that it would be impolite to pick it up._

___Optimus took it off the shelf and handed it to his second-in-command. "Drill Bit did some metalwork before he lost his sight. Remember him?"_

___"I believe he was blind when I knew him," Prowl replied, amazed at the craftsmanship that went into it. Her sides, back, and face were fashioned in almost picture-perfect detail. Her smile captured the tough warrior and the playful friend in the same twisting mouth...something most artists would spend a lifetime alone perfecting. Drill Bit had lost most of his optic configurations after a minefield explosion._

___"He was amazing." Optimus lingered over the shelf, staring at the other items and deep in thought. "He was not supposed to go through that area, he'd been warned, but even I couldn't tell him what to do. He went anyway. Nothing is sadder to me than foolish actions causing us to lose the gifts Primus gave."_

___"Affirmative, Prime." __Red Alert might have pictures Prowl could use__, but that would raise suspicion. Wait a minute..."Speaking of gifts, have our lawyers reached an agreement with Hasbro?"_

___Optimus forced himself to return to business. "They have. The Dinobots, Jazz, Bumblebee, Blaster, Tracks, Sideswipe, Hound, Mirage, Ratchet, you, and I are to be photographed and sculpted for the first line of toys. If they sell well this Christmas, Hasbro will manufacture the others."_

___"I will be a toy and Sunstreaker will not." The Lamborghini would be furious._

___Prime snickered. "They thought one was enough, and your personality evaluations steered them to pick the less hostile of the two. I'd keep a bodyguard or five with me if I were you."_

___Prowl would do no such thing. Instead they discussed monetary compensation from the toy company and the wheels in the tactician's head spun in circles like a NASCAR event._

* * *

"What the devil are you talking about? I talk to Ultra Magnus? You were there for what I said the other night!" 

"Yeah, I heard you." Springer didn't want him to repeat that awful pronouncement. "But doesn't he talk about business ever?"

"No, and I'd rather keep it that way. You DID come to the right person to talk about Jazz, though." Tracks had ceased working completely, preferring to point out what Springer had missed. "You'd better get that smaller one first or the whole pile will fall over."

"Tell me about Jazz." Springer reminded him, trying not to yell.

"Jazz is complicated."

That would be time number two someone had said that. "In what way?"

Tracks sat on a large rock, leaned back, and enjoyed his moment of sunny freedom. "Unofficially? He thinks he's a big player, and for most part, he is. He can manipulate anybody into doing what he wants them to, and Prowl didn't buy that. It drove Jazz up the wall! He didn't stop until he got what he wanted and when he got it, he got bored. The minute Prowl found somebody better - oops! Jazz's feelings are hurt, put the war on hold! He sat outside of Smokescreen's chambers and played every trick he could think of and sooner or later Prowl fell for it. Smokescreen didn't have a chance." Tracks shook his head. "This is just MY opinion, though, and it's off the record."

"I read you loud and clear," Springer grunted, managing to get electric wiring wrapped around his arm without any help. Tracks took pity on him and pulled on one end, telling him when to turn left, right, or step through a loop.

"Ask anybody else around here and it's Saint Jazz and Mean Prowl and Smokescreen the Homewrecker. Nobody said anything at that service because the only Smokescreen the rest of the Autobots knew was the one Jazz let them see. I didn't know him either," Tracks interrupted before Springer could turn his head and ask. Now that he'd liberated his audience, the Corvette went to return to his resting place but Snarl had moved it. "But I DO know Jazz. He's one of those characters where if there's a fight, right or wrong, everyone will side with him because he's_so cool._I got to witness first-hand somebody get hurt by him, and that mech decided he'd better stay on Jazz's good side, because anyone who_doesn't _ends up with a very lonely existence and an even more desolate funeral. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Tracks jumped off of the pile and headed towards Metroplex. "Ultra Magnus is due to be awake, and I'm due for a car wash."

"What about Prowl?" Springer called, brushing the dust off of his hands.

"What about him? He knew how to handle Jazz: when your sparkmate's not falling in line, you find a way to get him to behave!" Tracks threw one more line over his wings. "Even if you have to move out!"

* * *

___Prowl's subspace inventory list:_

___- One (1) acid pellet gun  
- Ten (10) acid pellet containers, encased  
- One (1) standard issue blaster  
- One (1) standard issue blaster recharge unit  
- Two (2) datapads  
- One (1) tool set, standard issue  
- One (1) Sears Roadside Assistant Kit, as per Ratchet's issuance 05/26/86 (contents listed on inside of kit's lid)  
- One (1) clay pot, contents classified_

* * *

"You almost said something at the funeral," Springer prompted. "What made you change your mind?" 

He did not answer right away. Perceptor remained in microscope mode as he inspected the mold that had been growing on the bread found at the scene of the crime. "The Mystery of the Peanut Butter Sandwich" had been solved, but he wanted to learn more from the evidence Kup had accumulated.

Springer had thought about the service long enough to recall that Perceptor was a part of the Old Guard, and thus more than likely able to fill in a few blanks his fellow Autobots had neglected to cover. "Perceptor?"

"I refrained from peroration because the congregation did not welcome my tendency to over-explain," Perceptor replied, transforming. "Or so Ultra Magnus would lead you to believe." He moved to another table and made a few notes on a datapad. "Therefore, I no longer vocally offer my opinion unless it is work-related."

He didn't sound angry about it, which meant that he was being logical...and more than likely amenable to a sweetly-worded request. Ultra Magnus was too harsh on the scientist anyways. "Can you draw me a diagram?"

Perceptor looked over at the sincerely beaming triple-changer and could only smile back. "Affirmative." He walked over to the dry-erase board and poised with his marker. Springer, upon request, sat down on a nearby chair and nodded enthusiastically. 'I can see why he likes you,' Perceptor mused to himself, before beginning the task at hand. "Jazz met Prowl after attack 32 of the Great War..."

* * *

___"Sending aerial photographs." Smokescreen pressed a few buttons and waited with some trepidation. Prowl wouldn't like what he saw._

___"__Ark__, this is Moon 1. State history of crater in coordinates XG-7."_

___That would be what he'd been dreading. "A Decepticon energy missile was launched," Smokescreen explained. "Trailbreaker only had enough power to protect himself and Wheeljack."_

___"Oh." Prowl remained reticent. He was supposed to assess the damage reports in order to collaborate with Red Alert and Hound to upgrade their defenses at the __Ark__, as well as the moon bases. "Therefore, none of the plant life survived...did it?"_

___"No Prowl. I'm sorry." That stupid cactus had taunted him every time he drove out the back entrance of The __Ark__, continuing to thrive and bloom, even creating smaller plants around it. Smokescreen had almost kissed Windcharger for tackling Starscream and causing the launcher to misfire. "Cloudstreaker and all of her offspring were hit."_

___"I see." Would he react? "Preparing to receive __Ark__ structure layouts," he announced in a shaky voice._

___That was the Prowl he knew: business first, emotions never. Smokescreen was glad he wasn't the one who had to tell Jazz that his baby was dust. "Sending __Ark__ structure layouts," he replied._

* * *

"Perceptor...who's Cloudstreaker?" 

He halted his segue of Ratchet's talented fingers mid-parse. "That moniker is familiar," he declared. "But there are no Autobots with that name, therefore I would suppose that it was someone else."

"Hm." Springer was about to give up. At least he was getting all of the holes in the fabric of the story filled, and then some.

"In the meantime, Blaster decided group therapy was progressing well enough..."

* * *

___The entire room was dark. Jazz's visor didn't adjust, though; he groped for the light switch instead._

___Oh, slag. He looked._

___What used to be vibrant maroon and blue was now gray and disgusting. His wires were hanging out, and they must have been shorting at one point in time, but now they lay like limp seaweed off of his midsection. He had no legs._

___"The body's on the table," Grapple warned, coming into the room a few seconds later._

___"Thanks a lot, Captain Obvious." Grapple had the world's worst timing. "I'm already in here."_

___"The objects are on the table, to your right." He walked over to the body with his hacksaw and blowtorch, nauseating Jazz enough to hurriedly skim the tabletop and seize the pot._

___As Smokescreen lay dying – three earth days before the peace conference - he confessed that he had something of Jazz's, and to give it back. Grapple knew where to find him and dragged him out of a meeting to tell him. Jazz kept his cool. When there was a break in the negotiations he came down to reclaim his belongings._

___"I got it! Thanks!" Jazz had to hurry out before he could hear the horrendous sound of Smokescreen's relays being harvested for spare parts, per the request of the deceased._

* * *

They were an amazing mass of color, mostly red. Springer's tourmaline body stuck out like a green thumb. He carefully dug around the sod someone else had lain and planted one of the perennials he had arranged in an unrecognizable pattern, humming "Sweet Emotion" as he worked. He knew he was being watched. He reached for yet another Red Monkey Flower. 

"I wouldn't mind some help," he announced to the trees behind him.

Like the picture emerging from a Magic Eye, Jazz materialized from the foliage that covered him. "I heard you've been asking around about me."

Springer continued his work. "I'd rather ask you. But I thought I'd replenish my garden first."

"Yeah...about that. I'm sorry."

"Forget it." He rested his optics on the black and white mech, dirt crumbling from his fingers.

"No fraggin' way!" Jazz declared, stooping down into the mud. "Perceptor was pretty pissed at me for wrecking everything right before the service, so I offered to re-sod it." He handed Springer another Red Monkey Flower.

It took a long time for him to get around to it, once they'd established a rhythm: Jazz handed him the flower, Springer put the flower in the hole and filled around it. "He was pissed at me but at the same time he was kind of in awe of where I told him to put the plaque."

"He asked you first?" When he'd seen Smokescreen's name next to Prowl's, he'd thought Jazz had lost an argument.

"I had my reasons." Jazz shrugged.

Springer had had enough. "You know, I've been trying to piece together this mess and there are only two things that have been bugging me, and the plaque was a big one. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. Perceptor told me he had a few places to put this thing and I told him to put it in a low-traffic area." Jazz tried to smile. Springer concentrated on the stone in the way of his flawless plant installment, leaving the air heavy with awkward fidgeting.

"If you don't want to talk about it, then don't. Do what you always do: keep me company." Springer smiled at him and held his hand out. "I need another flower, too."

How did he ALWAYS know what to say to ease the situation? Well, there was the exception with that execrable toast, but Springer didn't know the story behind that - although now he probably did - so...

"Jazz? Flower?"

Numbly, the black and white mech reached for the requested horticulture and felt his vocalizer initiate.

* * *

___He had dug two holes. One was a precise rectangular one foot by one foot by two; the other a deep dent in the ground like a divot made by a giant golfer. The divot dipped before a white sheet-covered object and the precise hole sat amidst the aftermath of an entire garden's uprooting. In front of all of this Jazz stood brushing the dirt off of his hands. Reaching into subspace, he stepped forward and began speaking Cybertronian. English was a decent language for some Earthlings - not as nice as Japanese - but for some excruciating moments calling for precise vernacular, one's native tongue was a necessity._

___"I never stopped believing in you, Prowl. Even when it was hard and I ran off and grabbed other mech's to get your attention I never stopped believing in US. Then I find this." His hands shook as he withdrew a colorful object._

___There had never been a toy version of Smokescreen. Hasbro had opined that one Datsun was enough. This toy had once been a Prowl, until the black and white was lovingly replaced by maroon and blue, complete with stickers. Prowl never did anything halfway._

___"Turns out I have no idea what we had, and I never did." He hadn't expected this kind of lying cloak-and-dagger...betrayal. Prowl had _promised _Jazz he would avoid Smokescreen, and instead he'd gone behind Jazz's back and burned in his own secret longing. The questions were: had he done it for some sense of honor…or to protect Jazz...or to feel complete...all of the above...none of the above...anyway you sliced it, it felt like Jazz's fault for not letting Prowl go. The bitterness soaked him like water on a sponge._

_____"You knew that I loved you. I BEYOND loved you." He had a rueful snicker in spite of himself. "Guess I was wrong, telling you I couldn't live without you. I should have let you go, so you could run to HIM." The cover draped over Smokescreen's plaque fluttered in the breeze as though on cue. "So I did everybody wrong. Not anymore." He moved closer to the hole to present the toy. "You're probably in The Matrix, which makes sense since once you found out Smokey was dead your spark embodiment didn't come around any more. But that's cool." His hand clenched too hard, causing one of Smokescreen's arms to snap off. "Here." Jazz popped the arm back into its socket and dropped the toy into the perfect hole. "You can be with him now. I had you in life, you get him in death, and this might sound unfair to you and Smokey, but I think me giving you an eternity to be together is pretty generous on my part." He almost managed a small parcel of sincerity on his face.  
_  
_"Smokescreen," he addressed the white lump next to Prowl's plaque, "You need something of his, and I'm sorry I didn't think of it sooner." Without further ado he picked at the Autobot symbol on his shoulder, taking utmost care to keep it intact. When it peeled off, edges as sharp as ever, Jazz could see the white paint flecks that had been on it the day Perceptor had presented it to him. He dropped it into the divot, its red frown facing the white cover. "He never stopped thinking about you." Jazz scraped dirt on top of it and placed a green square of sod over the pile._

_____At Prowl's plaque he hesitated. "No, this is NOT because of...who you think. Stop smirking. If I have to get away from him to prove you wrong I will. You had to be so damn smug..." he couldn't continue. This was more difficult than he'd anticipated. "Prowlie-bot," he whined, struggling to hold it in. He had to keep some sense of grace under all of this. The hour was getting later, and Jazz still had a great deal of former garden to re-sod before dawn._

_____"So go. Get out of here. Be with him. That's what death does: it frees you up to do what you want. Have fun."_

_____Jazz kneeled with alacrity and plunged his digging tool into the heap of dirt, throwing the soil if held onto the cheerful plastic Smokescreen as fast as he could, unable to see anything while deep in unpleasant thoughts._

* * *

He did not really respond with the impact Jazz had expected. Instead Springer finished his gardening task and began putting his tools away. There were no shocked gasps, no commentary on Jazz's actions, not even a nod of the head to show he was listening. He stood up to his full height to inspect his work and seemed pleased with it. 

"Who's Cloudstreaker?" he finally asked.

Jazz debated telling the truth or being flippant or any of a thousand reactions that came to him but right now he was fighting the urge to wrap his arms around the mech in front of him and sob on his shoulder. The mention of the plant brought back a myriad of confusing emotions and memories, which sweetened the sour taste in Jazz's mouth but at the same time, wounded him. How did Springer say what Jazz needed to hear? Even at the toast, when they were getting over-energized and exaggerating the greatness of a mech who didn't deserve such glossy praise, Springer had brought things back to the reality Jazz required. Prowl wasn't a saint, and Springer reminded him of that. He ALWAYS said the right thing, even when he didn't know it; therefore, he deserved the truth. He deserved a lot of things, on more than one level. "She was a cactus. She was big and flowery and the - second - most beautiful shade of green I've ever seen."

"What's the first?" Springer caught himself asking. Jazz stared at him for a good three seconds with an uncomfortable smile before things got..._____weird_. N_e_ither looked away, making the seemingly innocuous question that hung over their heads more confrontational than flirtatious to Jazz...but then again, he liked a challenge. Just as he was about to say something Springer frowned and leaned sideways to get a better look.

"Bogies behind you, man."

The Decepticons were back. "Slaggit!" Jazz growled, transforming.

* * *

_____In the later part of the evening The Ark often settled down to a quiet lull, as anyone on patrol had long departed and anyone back was ensconced in their respective follow-up tasks. Prowl savored the routine moment of raw solitary silence, waiting for what he knew was the inevitable ruckus Jazz would bring in a matter of moments. After all, he'd come back from patrol an hour ago; he could make his daily post-patrol social circuit in 59.75 minutes, on average. Any minute -_

_____Whoosh. Prowl didn't look up, as was part of the game. They had been bonded for a few years, and they both knew that Jazz had creative ways to get Prowl's attention when he wanted it.  
**  
"You should've been go-one**_."  
_  
It made him jump. Blast!_

_____Jazz chuckled and offered his hand out for the consternated Prowl to grab. ** "Knowing how I made ya feel..." **Prowl gave up and took it, rising in preparation for the unavoidable dance routine. "**And I should've been go-one. After all your words of stee-eeeeel."**_  
**_  
_**_Jazz took off in a cha-cha and Prowl kept time with him flawlessly. **"Oh I must've been a dree-eamer."**_

_____**"Must've been a dreamer oh-" **Prowl tunelessly supplied. Jazz grinned. Unfortunately, the Porsche could not recall the words and dance at the same time. "And I must've been someone else," Prowl whispered._

_____"Right! Thanks, Honey. **And I must've been someone else**. **And we should've been o-o-ver." **He maneuvered a clever dip and brought Prowl back up in the flicker of an optic **"Oh Sherry, our love holds on, holds on." **Jazz was so cute when he did his Steve Perry voice. Prowl didn't mind doing backup but he really didn't help the song much, since he was such a lousy singer. The best way to avoid being Oates to his Hall was to get Jazz to cease his caterwauling. ** "Oh Sherry, our love holds on, holds on."**_

_____The logical means to shut him up was also the most desired. Before Jazz could belt out Verse Two, Prowl put his hands on either side of Jazz's face and caressed the line where face demarcated from helmet. He pulled that naughty twinkling visored face to him and gently kissed his beloved's lips. It was the whole point of the game._

* * *

It had taken forever to get rid of Octane this time. He had brought both Trypticon and Predaking, each motivated with promises of the best Cybertonium if they destroyed the Autobots standing in their way. Neither did either. 

"Hey, Springer?"

"Jazz?" Mid-battle the triple-changer had been stuck behind a cloud of Sweeps and had suffered minor damage; Arcee, however, was in TROUBLE. First Aid had requested no visitors while he worked, causing the green mech to act distant until the velvet voice he knew so well entered his processor. "Are you okay?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing, man." Springer looked like he had seen better days. He paced outside of Med Bay, swinging his arms and muttering to himself in a scary fashion.

"I'm okay," Springer stated unconvincingly. It made Jazz laugh, for some reason.

"It's just the way you said it," he explained, attempting to be serious. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

"Get me in there," he snarled, pointing at the Med Bay door that refused to open. Jazz had experience with this kind of thing before.

"No problem," he purred, pressing a few buttons. "First Aid, man! I've got a coupla goodies here with your name on 'em!" First Aid was notorious for two things: not refueling appropriately and giving away his status to anyone he talked to.

"I can't talk, Jazz, I'm in the middle of replacing Arcee's spark case." That was not good. Jazz did not want to witness his compatriot's reaction, so he stared at the intercom buttons and thought about how similar First Aid's accent was to Prowl's.

"Tell ya what, can I have someone bring 'em in for ya?"

"As long as it isn't Springer! He'll be a wreck if he sees what's going on here."

Jazz had discovered long ago that smiling over radio WAS audible. "I'll see what I can do." He dug into subspace to retrieve the energon goodies and gave the wavering Springer a stern look. "You gotta keep it together when you're in there, 'cause if you make him mad First Aid will stop taking my calls and I'll never get anybody in there again. Go in, give him the stuff, take a look at her, and get out. Be quiet, be calm. Ya got it?" His audience nodded absently and tiptoed into Med Bay with the exaggerated care of a tightrope walker. When he came back he looked a little more relieved and a lot less like a caged lunatic.

"Now...I wait," Springer announced, plopping to the floor.

"No you don't." Jazz extended one hand to help him up and pointed down the hall. "I wanna see you put your back into it."

* * *

They hadn't done this in FOREVER, not since Jazz's chronic tardiness eventually wore on Springer's patience and he let their time reservation at the gymnasium lapse. The other mechs in there relinquished their solo occupancy to share and claimed not to mind the music. Good thing, because Jazz was on an 80's streak that was downright embarrassing. 

**"We must have been stone crazy/when we thought we were just friends,"** London Beat made Jazz's 'attack me' pose seem beyond bizarre to Springer, who thought that his Wackiness quotient had been filled already this week. Still, it was not often he got to scrimmage with his friend nowadays, so why not maximize the moment? He bounced off the wall to attack from the side. Jazz watched him do it and met him halfway, swinging the staff as hard as he could in the opposite direction to counter Springer's momentum and knock him to the ground - but it didn't. If bouncing back was an Olympic sport...Springer would be the beer guzzler watching intermittently and declaring "I could do that!" and shocking his friends by accomplishing the impossible.

**"I guess I'm all confused about you."**

Springer crouched low and tucked his Bo staff under his arm so that it stuck out, parallel to the ground. Jazz remained far enough away to give him that fake glowering look that was so campy it cracked Springer up every time.

"Stop it!"

**"I've been thinking about you."**

Jazz plunged forward with an anime Samurai's enthusiasm, screaming loudly. Springer screamed, too, dashing in a counterattack. Jazz got the better of him and managed to slam the biggest dent into Springer's back First Aid had ever seen.

"AUGH! Primus, Jazz!" He managed to keep himself standing, staggering bent over and waiting for another attack.

**"...she was my one temptation/though I didn't want her to stay/deep down/I'm still confused about you."**

Jazz was coming down on him like a hawk on an injured rabbit, spinning his Bo staff and talking trash.

"Man, I've fought ROCKS that lasted longer than you!" He had such an evil victory smirk. Springer could picture it bearing down on him on a dark recharge plate and he must have reacted to the thought because Jazz did a double take, halted his charge, dropped his staff and backed up a few steps. Springer took that hesitation as permission to make a flying leap and kick him into the wall, disrupting the twins' play from the other side of the room.

Jazz joined their laughter. "I can't believe I fell for that!" he exclaimed, allowing the others to help him stand. He meandered over to the CD player, backwards, verbally defending his honor from Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's taunts. The way he _____glided,_ so fluidly, hands in perfect cadence to the timbre of his voice, body swaying as he walked like a flag in the wind...it stirred Springer's solenoids. He didn't trip over the player, like anyone else would have, he stopped at the perfect distance and did a small dance step to turn around. Jazz was beauty in motion.

**"Anyway you want it, that's the way you need it, anyway you want it-"** He lost his smile in his rush to turn it off, as though it attacked him like an acid pellet to the chest. "Sorry, I'm sick of the '80s. How about..." he shot Springer a bawdy optic ridge flutter. "Ludacris?"

"Nooooo!" Springer protested. "How about 'Just Push Play' or 'Walk This Way'?"

"You and Aerosmith..." He stopped to consider something, tilting his head. "Do you like Journey?"

Springer nodded, examining the crack in his staff to give the allusion of not really paying attention anymore. "I'll go wherever there's action."

He had misunderstood. Jazz almost explained it but decided the interpretation was okay. "Ready?" he asked, My Chemical Romance's ' Helena' taking over their audios.

The triple changer braced himself. "Bring it on."

* * *

"Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ultra Magnus Ult-AHHHH!" Tracks arched his back so hard the mech who's name he'd been exalting almost lost his grip and allowed the Corvette to fall to the floor. Blue light, warm yet soft, shot out of him like an aural cannon. 

'I made him do that,' Ultra Magnus thought, leer as impossible to conceal as his own climax. He allowed himself a brute grunt followed by a gasp of relief in contrast to the ecstatic scream that came from above him.

Tracks leaned back and moaned as the pleasure lessened its hold on him to the point where he could collapse his wings against the chestplate of the mech below him. The white hands that had exquisitely tortured him from behind relaxed their sadistic grip on his wings to affectionately rest on the yellow square on Tracks' chest.

He was so WARM. Ultra Magnus could NOT keep his hands off of this mech, no matter how hard he tried. It didn't help, he supposed, that Tracks seemed to enjoy teasing him into a frenzy of desperate lust by timing his car wash to Ultra Magnus' work schedule so that the moment the carrier walked into the room there was a fragrant Corvette just WAITING to be polished...with clean rags...and Johnny Cash playing over the stereo...and a new door password to keep Rodimus out. Good Primus, who COULD resist? Ultra Magnus got him good, though. Tracks would be grinning like an idiot for at least an hour.

Both mechs sighed in satisfaction. "The things you do to me," they chorused, startled that the other had uttered the same declaration.

* * *

They were taking up so much of the practice room that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe gave up and left, grumbling in an irritated warning to Powerglide and Bumblebee as they passed them. 

"Springer and Jazz are fake-glomping again," Sideswipe griped.

Powerglide looked at Bumblebee, they both turned to the twins, and gave them The Finger. Sunstreaker charged.

"What the frag?" he demanded, fists flying. Sideswipe joined his side immediately.

"Yeah, do what you always do to mini-bots, you slagheaps!" Bumblebee snarled, ducking out of his way. "Beat 'em and fuck 'em and throw 'em away! We're not real machines to you!"

Sideswipe would have broken off the little runt's horns if Rodimus Prime hadn't interceded and slammed both Lamborghinis against the wall - one in each hand. How did he do that? Optimus used to do the same thing.

"I want answers - NOW!" He thundered,___sounding_ like Optimus. "What's going on?"

"Tell those hypocrites to check out the main hallways," Powerglide sneered, his broken arm's exposed wires sparking as he spoke.

"Go to Med Bay," Prime ordered the two mini-bots behind him.

"Don't come near us again, you perverts!" Powerglide threatened, backing away as he said it.

"Watch your taillights, paper airplane!" Sideswipe retorted from his spot on the wall.

Rodimus glowered at the two mechs before him, who were grabbing at the unrelenting chokehold that pinned them to the wall in a very uncomfortable way.

"You two are denied leave until Sunday, and I want you in my office at fifteen-hundred hours tomorrow." They would have made a reference to what Prime liked to do in his office, but his fingers were denting their throats to the point that Sunstreaker feared damage. Optimus was never THAT harsh. "I want to hear you say 'Yes, Prime' before you go lock yourselves in your rooms."

"Yes, Prime," they echoed. He let them drop to the floor and watched them hustle down the corridor to their chambers. Optimus had warned him through The Matrix that these two would be trouble, and that the best way to rule them was through fear (especially since Hot Rod's old crush on Sunstreaker had made Rodimus' interactions with him even MORE awkward than desired). He hoped he'd done the right thing. He leaned against the wall and for some reason the memory of Blitzwing telling him Rodimus would not abandon his post for the openness of space came back to haunt. He should have gone with him. Now he was stuck here.

The dual shriek assaulted his audios and he automatically broke into a run as a response.

* * *

Left, left right, top, duck - OW! 

Jazz laughed as Springer hopped on one foot to the other side of the room and investigated the newest addition to the steady accumulation of dents on his body. He had to find a way to keep from being beaten into spare parts, to avoid being thrown on the floor, grabbing helplessly at Jazz's hands as they tore at him, to keep from drowning in that visor as the Porsche completely overtook him, seeing that triumphant smile as he bent down to claim his body completely -

OW!

"Springer! C'mon! Pay attention! You've been staring off into space for thirty seconds!"

He couldn't apologize. The only thing he could do was keep moving, or his own thoughts would consume him. Favoring the dented leg, he lunged forward for a clean hit.

* * *

After the Dinobots' brush with Hollywood Grimlock had developed an appreciation for the theatre. He wanted to put on a play for the Autobots - a Japanese Kabuki piece with lots of samurais and ninjas and cool stuff like that. Rodimus found them working on their sword choreography when he requested a moment with their set designer. 

"Would you like to explain THIS to me?" he demanded, holding up two crayon drawings that could only come from Swoop. The others like to draw, but Swoop was the only one who had bothered to take an art class and had some sense of perspective, which elevated his drawings from 'primitive' to 'crude.'

Picture #1: Sunstreaker was getting a great deal of attention from Cliffjumper. Graphic attention. Unusually positive attention, considering that the two had sparred every moment of their lives and had been shouting insults and starting fights up until the moment Cliffjumper had been shipped off to Cybertron to command a new project.

Picture #2: Different pose, different Lamborghini...same mini-bot.

The twins had pretended, upon first viewing, to scream to anyone within earshot that these were a LIE, a stupid JOKE, and that they'd GET whoever did this...but as the nervous denials became more and more Freudian and the cracks of truth slipped out, the problem was more that the two had had NO idea the other one was doing that with Cliffjumper...which escalated to an all-out brawl that Rodimus had to break up.

To make matters worse, every mini-bot had seen the pictures and veracious or not, took them as truth. The two biggest bullies were not only aggressive goons but closet mini-bot lovers! Cliffjumper was a traitor to YEARS of abuse the others had endured from these two. He'd get his. As for Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, they were going to kill the brother who'd seen Cliffjumper behind the other's back, ruining a great deal of team cohesion, to say the least. Both wanted transfers. A livid Bumblebee _____promised_ that if they were transferred it better damn well be where there were NO mini-bots or he'd lead a nasty revolt. Rodimus had been working out all of the problems with Ultra Magnus for at least an hour, trying to calm everyone down before finding the artist of this catalyst. Now he had the culprit before him and even for a Dinobot he looked arrogantly recalcitrant.

"Me Swoop draw what me Swoop see on Glomp Hill."

Rodimus tried not to get angry. "What were you doing up there?"

Swoop shrugged. "Glomp Hill public property."

From behind them Grimlock sniggered, no doubt the script writer of this particular exchange. Rodimus grabbed Swoop's arm and dragged him further away from the group. The Pteronadon yanked his arm away from Prime's grip with a loud scraping noise. "Swoop, you have just caused a HUGE mess of trouble. The mini-bots are mad, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are mad___ - __fighting_ - they're___ ****__humiliated_...what was going through your processor?"

Swoop crossed his arms and looked twice as frightening as his alternate mode. "Nobody mess with me Swoop. NOBODY mess with you Roddy. Twins think twice before embarrass US again."

He should be mad. He should be lecturing, or punishing, or something Prime-like. The Matrix was telling him to chastise this trouble-maker and make things right, for the good of the army.

But there was too much Hot Rod still in him.

"Swoop," Rodimus sighed, chuckle escaping as his hand went up to his forehead for the inevitable circuit-spark (migraine) that would come later. He'd never felt vindicated, turned on, and exasperated at the same time before. "You shouldn't have done that. You're in trouble. Now I have to punish you." Usually when he said that there was a touch of cheek in his vocalizer. Usually.

Swoop had a fire in his optics and a razor in his delivery. "Us Dinobots not part of you Autobots. Me Swoop not your soldier. Me Swoop Dinobot. GRIMLOCK punish me, if he say so."

Grimlock relished the opportunity to interrupt. "Me Grimlock say he do right thing. No punishment."

From out of nowhere The Matrix shot him a memory and an emotion. Rodimus had to take a moment to separate the two. "You had this same fight with Optimus, Grimlock, and I'll give you the same answer: you were made as Autobots, therefore you ARE Autobots and you are a part of this army."

Grimlock could be even more intimidating with fewer facial features. "Optimus Prime also wave best friend Perceptor under me Grimlock's nose to tell me Grimlock how much me Grimlock NOT Autobot."

And just like that, the emotional surge from The Matrix flushed over him like a wave and washed him away. "How many times do we have to go over this before you realize that _____I can't be with you?_"

Grimlock remained immobile and Swoop took a step back in fright; that had not been the voice of his beloved Roddy.

Rodimus took a step back, too, circuits flaring. His processor was aching, throbbing with unbalanced electric surges that caused him stagger a little, posture drooping in exhaustion. "I'm sorry, Grimlock. I don't know what-what came over me. I think I'll go...lie down...defrag..." Swoop grabbed him, allowing him to lean, and took him out.

* * *

"**Run with me/wherever I go/and just play dumb/whatever, you know..."**

He had him in a corner with nowhere to go. Jazz could give him another dent, if he had his staff, but Springer had broken both of theirs and they had to settle for hand-to-hand combat. Jazz was exhilarated with the power he'd forgotten he had when someone's fate rested in between his hands...and all he had to do was give a few quick jabs and his prey was on the floor, helpless, giving him a determined expression of refusal to give up even when the odds were stacked against him. He could struggle all he wanted, but Springer was tired and broken and ripe for more minute and precise torment. Already his reactions were slowing down, barely able to block the fists coming at him. Conquest was upon him, all he had to do was consume the defeated and savor his lamentations. Jazz found a sensitive corner of Springer's armor and tweaked it, just to hear him grunt.

"Uh." He made a pretty face when he did that. What would happen if Jazz did it again with a bit more force? Springer flinched. "Please, don't...don't do that."

"Does it hurt?" Jazz didn't realize how husky his voice had gotten. Or how his fingers were betraying him by changing from pinchers to feelers.

"No, not hurt." He gave a small shiver. "Please, please stop."

Jazz couldn't. Not when the sights and sounds before him gave him such a rush of power. Springer was at his mercy...he hadn't had anyone under him, reacting like that since who-knew-when, and it pulled him in. His traitorous fingers fluttered into sacred spaces while Springer shifted slightly to give him better access. Jazz felt his lips land on that point on Springer's neck that had been___calling_ him, his own noise of satisfaction drowned out by someone else gasping for air, Jazz's name escaping his lips-

"Jazz! Paging Jazz!"

It was as though he were awakening from a dream. He paused as he debated burying his face into Springer's sensitive spots or do the logical thing and answer when summoned. ___(__You could have let Ironhide get it! He's on call!_) "Yeah, First Aid, I'm here. What's up?" he called back, standing up and dragging himself away from the green mech on the floor.

"I thought you'd like to know that I can't do patrol tonight because Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are stuck in their chambers until Sunday," First Aid announced.

No problem, Blaster could do it. Even so..."What!? What happened?" The sight of his fighting partner staggering to rise caused him to interrupt himself. "Never mind, I'll find out later. How's Arcee?"

"I need to do more work on her but she's stable. Springer can come and see her now, if he wants to."

"He wants to, he wants to," Springer groaned, making his way to the door. "PRIMUS he wants to."

"You might wanna take a look at him, too," Jazz remarked, noticing the green mech looked a little bluer. "I played too rough."

"I'll see Springer in a couple of minutes, then. First Aid out."

Although they walked down the hallway like nothing was wrong, Jazz felt a tumult of inner turmoil, and he refused to think about any of it. Instead he apologized for beating Springer up. The triple changer did not respond right away and when he did, it was more for concern over Arcee.

"I'm sorry; it's just that...she's my best friend!"

It was like a cloud blocking the sun. Jazz felt a surge of disappointment. "I'm NOT your best friend?"

"Oh, yeah, you are! Not like her, though. I'm her mentor." His optics...they were like the ocean before it was about to rain. Jazz had to resist reaching out and caressing his face by balling his hands into fists and looking away.

"She's your baby, huh?" Jazz hadn't had any protégés. By the time he'd risen to a rank high enough to call for them they were on earth, where he, Ratchet, Ironhide, and Prowl were running an army that required a more generic application of guidance. Too bad. If Jazz could have taught Bumblebee and Mirage a few more spy techniques, then maybe they wouldn't have been caught so many times. "First Aid knows what he's doing, man. She'll be fine." He still couldn't face his friend to offer a higher quality reassurance. He didn't trust himself.

Springer acted as though this was not necessary. He accelerated past Jazz and shook his head, smiling. "It's not your problem. Anyway-" He made a hasty right turn to Med Bay. "I'll see you later."

Jazz nodded, avoiding optic contact. He had a meeting to go to, anyway: trouble was boiling on the other side of the country.

* * *

Seated on Smokescreen's plaque was a person Jazz had not seen for a very long time. It made him wonder if this were a spark embodiment vision. 

"What are you doing here?" He asked the figure.

Spike plucked the G string on his guitar and smiled back. "For the first time in ten years...I have a couple of days to myself." He looked up to smile. "I missed doing this, but I'm still not very good at it, so I need to hide here. Carly's got the house full of Daniel's pre-school buddies," he reported, smiling apologetically. "She told me to save myself."

Jazz didn't know what to say to that. He stared at the red flowers Springer had planted, and how they formed an impressive Autobot symbol on the green grass around it. For some reason this depressed him more than anything else right now.

"Man, I don't understand marriage," Jazz sighed. "How do you keep it together with someone without bonding your sparks?"

The chords were familiar. Spike still couldn't do anything complicated, but the patterns sounded like something he'd done before. "That's the thing, Jazz. We just promise to love somebody for the rest of our lives and try to live by that. Sometimes you can't, sometimes you don't, sometimes somebody else decides it for you. There's no piece of your spark to hold you to them."

Jazz felt a corner of his lips twitch upward sardonically. "Must be nice."

"It has its good side. I still can't read her mind, though. We have to talk if we want to communicate." Unspoken was the acknowledgment that this was harder than it looked.

"And you have Daniel." There seemed to Jazz to be no greater testimony to two beings' lives intertwining than a child. Granted, he'd seen societal exceptions, but to him the fact that one could put half of their genes with another and form a separate individual...that was amazing to him. All Jazz had gotten from the love of his life was an old pot and a lot of residual misery. Spike's chord pattern intensified and he sang.

**"Say, my love, I came to you/with best intentions/you laid down and gave to me just what/I'm seeking/love, you drive me to distraction..."**

Of all the figures of speech Jazz had heard on his existence here, that one was his favorite. It fit the way he saw Springer to a 'T.' Springer...what was he going to do about him? At their meeting today Rodimus indicated that as long as the Decepticons were going after their Cybertonium supply it wasn't prudent to leave the planet unprotected. They were here to stay. Jazz needed help.

**"Hey my love do you believe that we/might last a thousand years/or more if not for this-"**

Jazz continued to stare at the flower symbol. "You and your weird taste in music." It was too perfect a shape, it needed to be altered, this altar to a dead dream that Jazz was no longer a part of and which Springer had never known.

Spike was annoyed that his concentration had been diverted. "What did you want, Whitney Houston?" he snarled.

It might be nice. There was something in how her songs spoke of endless longing for something less complicated in her life, something Dave Matthews seemed to gloss over no matter how many saxophone solos he put in his music.

**"Our flesh and blood it ties/you and me right up/tie me down...**

Prowl...he couldn't let go of Prowl. He said he had, he pretended he had, but it was impossible. Just like Springer would never let go of Arcee as his student and Grimlock would never forgive Optimus and Sideswipe would never stay angry with Sunstreaker and Tracks would never relinquish the leash he had around Ultra Magnus, it was impossible to dishonor the love he'd shared for Prowl by tossing it aside for somebody else. Prowl couldn't do it either, until death had parted them, and even then his last thought was of his sparkmate.

**"Hey, my love, you came to me like/wine comes to this mouth/grown tired of water all the time/you quench my heart and you/quench my mind..."**

"I'm going to New York," he announced, abruptly cutting short Spike's cracking voice.

"What for?" Spike asked, looking up in bewilderment.

Jazz held up the notice. "Sparkplug's Garage is in foreclosure." Jazz had to go because Ultra Magnus heard Tracks volunteer and almost shorted a fuse. A huge argument followed, ending with Jazz graciously offering to go instead, since the letter did not specify any one Autobot, just their legal department (Prowl). It had nothing to do with his need to get away from the mess here. So he told himself.

If a more bilious scowl were invented, Jazz didn't want to see it. "I knew that dipshit would run the business into the ground," Spike declared bitterly. "My father didn't believe me."

It was a horrible thing to say to someone who had been such a great friend to the Autobots all this time. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Spike went back to his guitar. "He got in my way and pissed me off. That's reason enough." The chords were louder, more acrimonious. "Why did Dad give HIM the garage? He wasn't family. He was a ___thug._"

Jazz had no reply to this. He let Spike begin the song all over again as he pondered the Autobot-shaped plant mosaic below him. The dirt was soft and yielding, thanks to a recent rainstorm, allowing Jazz to scoop one flower up with minimal untangling and stickiness. He gently placed it in the old pot from his subspace compartment, along with some dirt. It was kind of cute the way it peeked out over the pot's lid. In a way, it was comforting.

"Funny...you made the Autobot symbol look like it's crying," Spike commented.

"You're upside-down. Besides, humans see Jesus in their tortillas," Jazz explained flippantly. His flower needed a name. "So don't read too much into it."

"Then why didn't you take it from the side, to keep from ruining the middle of the picture?"

"Shut up, Spike."

* * *

Arcee came online to a smiling peridot face she immediately recognized. "Hey there," she greeted, as perky as anyone who didn't feel as though her insides had been dipped in chocolate and fed to Insecticons. 

Springer returned the greeting with a giant embrace. "I'm glad to see you!" he declared, kissing her and shaking a little.

So backing off instead of being his usual pushy self hadn't worked, either. Poor Springer. "What did Jazz do to you?" she demanded, wondering if anyone would get around to asking how___she_ felt.

* * *

It was one of those weird coincidences where the moment he started his engine and the radio came on, it was playing the same song Spike had been practicing. Spike had been a good sport, buckling up the still-nameless flower in Cloudstreaker's pot and seeing Jazz off, telling him to avoid downtown or he'd be stuck in rush hour and that he'd fix the flower garden before Springer saw it.

"You're one in six billion, Spike," Jazz called, pealing out like Porsches do. He felt good enough to sing along with the radio.

**"Celebrate we will/because life is short but sweet for certain/we're climbing two by two/to be sure these days continue/these things we cannot change..."**

He decided to name the plant Whitney.

**"Change..."**


	31. West End Girls

"There are worse ways to die than slow starvation," Moonracer sighed, resigned.

"You're not helping," Chromia scratched out, shifting from her bean-shaped fetal position to unsheathe her claws. Her attempts to conserve energy were not working. "I've been calculating the torture intervals and we're due. We need to think of a way to-"

"Shut up!" Nova snarled. "Why can't any of you SHUT UP for FIVE fraggin' Astro-seconds?" The misery had worn her down into hysteria. Moonracer said she was sorry.

Elita-1 ignored all of them. She had attempted negotiations, distress signals, supplying miniscule parcels of information to make them valuable…even escape. Shockwave's drones had shown the same shrewdness as their creator when dealing with the captive female Autobots. If only she could get _Shockwave_ to listen to her, instead of sending obdurately unhearing _drones_, then maybe there was a chance for emancipation.

Firestar said nothing, preferring to fantasize about breaking her chains and saving her beloved female Autobots again, like she always did. She had learned every known rescue technique there was –even come up with some of her own. She was the heroine of the group, and now she felt like she was failing them by letting them starve to death in a pointless mass, but this pain in her body refused to relent, pursuing her in her few moments online. It was driving her insane. The room was getting darker, which meant that either she was passing out again or dying; it was hard to tell, and she was tired of saying good-bye to her friends to wake up in worse agony as a drone tried to pull her asunder for spare parts. Darkness…she hurt so bad….the others were calling her name but she couldn't muster the strength to respond…loud noises didn't make her jump or wake her up, either…this must be it…

Warm, sweet energon poured down her fuel line, spilling off to the side and making her air intakes gasp in confusion, causing her to vapor-lock and cough.

"Hey! Careful!" Someone was holding her up. Someone pink. It was still too hard to see anything correctly. "Drink it slowly."

"Elita-1?"

The pink thing laughed. Firestar was still confused. The others were silent, making her suppose that she were almost non-functional and this was her last dream before spark abandoned body. "Chromia?" she called weakly.

"I'm here, Firestar."

So she wasn't losing her grip on reality. Her vision was clearing up and the being was definitely not Elita-1. It was someone who looked special, though. "Are you being fed by a pretty pink Autobot, too?" she asked her commanding officer.

"No, mine's old, gray, and pretty cranky," the blue Autobot replied with a tease in her voice. That was a rarity, one that confused Firestar so much she choked again.

"Who are you calling old?" a rusty voice snapped. "You've got relays older than half of your team put together!"

"You should know! You made them!"

Moonracer and Nova gave off a relieved cackle, the same irritating noise they made whenever they got silly. Firestar turned her attention back to the female who seemed to have an optic on the door while she administered more energon. She was intriguing. A nebulous cloud of impatient energy swirled around her like an aura of restless worry, one that shifted and shook each time she anxiously glanced away, intensifying even as the rusty voice told her not to worry, they had plenty of time and that Blurr and Springer were on the way.

Someone burst in with the melodrama of Gilgamesh, demanding to know where Ultra Magnus had gone. He was flanked by two shorter mechs who did not have half the commanding presence _he_ had. It was enough to cause more than one individual to make a double-take.

"Is that…" the pink one asked, in awe.

"Optimus!" Elita-1 cried enthusiastically, heaving herself away from a black mech who'd been trying to help her stand up, instead unable to find his hold as she lost her balance fell to her knees.

"Elita." Firestar could focus better and saw her leader scooped up and taken out the prison door. A large blue, red and white mech hovered in the doorway impatiently.

"Shockwave didn't give us much of a window," he grunted. "I'll get the others out if you'll put her in your trailer."

"Affirmative," Prime replied. "Autobots! Load up the wounded, transform and roll out!"

"I've always wanted to hear him say that," the green Autobot remarked, kneeling down to separate Firestar from her pink rescuer in order to load her onto Ultra Magnus. "Go help Blurr. He's having trouble with that loud one over there."

Nova, hysterical, did not trust the fast-talking mech before her, her shrill voice demanding she be put down, she could transform on her own, thank you very much. The pink one laid a hand on Nova's shoulder and she calmed down immediately. She had the ability to bewitch all around her, as though she were a servant of Primus.

"Who is _that_?" Firestar gasped. The green one was not too gentle with her.

"Arcee," he replied. "Uh-oh, we got company. Kup?"

"I'm on it!"

Firestar could hear the shots but her mainframe chose that exact moment to restart. The rest of the trip was bumpy and painful and Nova did not do anything but moan impatiently.

* * *

Once returned to the team hideout there was not much to do but repair and get to know the fewer-than-score female Autobots who seemed less than interested in anything Code Red (a black vehicle of some kind) and Springer (the green one) had to say. They were just plain rude to Blurr. 

Arcee, on the other wheel, was treated like a sorority pledge prospective. Everything she said was either _fascinating_ or _hilarious_. Where had she come from? Who built her? How did she like being the only female? How had she ended up in _this_ slag heap?

Code Red was uncomfortable with the exalted position she had been given over him; Kup and Ultra Magnus were amused; Springer was suspicious. His protégé was not a new pet, she was a soldier. They were turning her head with stories of great female empowerment.

"Then the guys were stuck behind enemy lines with Starscream and Shockwave shooting at all sides-"

Moonracer leaned in to interrupt Nova's story. "-then WE had to bail them out. Starscream made some stupid comment but he was as cowardly as ever! I'm Moonracer, by the way."

"I know." They'd each introduced themselves at least three times, except for the red one, who wouldn't look in Arcee's direction. "What's her name?"

"That's Firestar. She's just embarrassed that she was rescued by a mech. Usually _she_ does the rescuing. Ever heard of Inferno?"

Arcee hadn't. The females were shocked. What about Ironhide? Powerglide? Ratchet? Sunstreaker? Mirage? Sideswipe? There used to be other female Autobots, did she know Darkmatter or Rhapsody or Oasis-

Optimus Prime, Elita-1, Ultra Magnus, and Chromia took that moment to march in and deliver the bad news: Prime was leaving. He had to go back to earth and tend to his flock. He was not taking anyone with him. Without any real good-byes he walked out into the piles of slag that dotted the lower level in which they hid, claiming he knew a short cut, and rolled out.

Springer was not impressed. This mech was worse than Ultra Magnus when it came to cold formality. He'd been an impressive shooter, though. He and that sea-green colored female had kept more drones at bay than the whole Autobot army could have.

"Is he always like that?" Arcee asked them. She only knew the few individuals in Ultra Magnus' group. Any behavior not like her close-knit fraternity was completely foreign to her.

"He's heavy to be around," Nova muttered uncomfortably. "It's like he knows whatever you're thinking, and he knows what to say."

"I never thought of him like that," Moonracer snorted, looking up from their huddle to see Springer making an attempt to talk to one of the more attractive female Autobots. "Arcee, he's more like Ultra Magnus. But funnier. Speaking of funny, Nova, look."

The victim in Springer's sights politely greeted the mech before her.

"How are you? I'm Springer." He had a very charming smile. The silver female did not smile back as warmly.

"They call me Mercuria."

"What do _you_ call you?" he cracked, laughing a little too hard at his own joke.

Mercuria didn't get it. "The same thing. Why?"

"Oh." He seemed at a loss as to what to say. As he struggled for another topic of conversation Mercuria shook her head and gave another friend with her an exasperated look.

"Are you a friend of Arcee's?" the other friend asked.

"Yeah! I'm her mentor. We always have the other's bumper. Right, Arcee?"

"Sure," Arcee assured him, smiling warmly but forgetting just as quickly.

Nova had a better idea. Elita-1 had commissioned a reconnaissance mission now that Optimus Prime had found them this secret location, would Arcee want to come with her, Moonracer, and Firestar?

"I'll have to ask Ultra Magnus," she replied. "Maybe Springer could come with us!" He must not have heard; he was talking to another female, one that was less gracious in her rejection.

"Maybe," Nova replied, face conveying a contradiction. Moonracer gave an even stranger expression.

"Why do you need to ask HIM? Elita-1 gave us permission, and she's a commanding officer."

Elita-1 WAS a commanding officer…so Arcee tagged along.

* * *

They turned a corner too fast and nearly collided with a huge pile of what used to be a major government building. Arcee skidded in the acid rain, her exoskeleton stinging with every droplet that assaulted her. "This rain is AWFUL!" she complained. 

"Just tune it out!" Moonracer called. "You get used to it. Besides, these storms only last awhile. You can't waste time waiting for it to clear up. Hey Nova, remember that time the rain got through the roof and that one leak kept dripping on your head during a briefing?"

"Do I! Mercuria couldn't stop laughing!"

"She got into sooooo much trouble. It was BOLT!"

"Bolt?" Arcee asked, confused.

"You know…switched on, hose-twisting, 'lectric…" Nova was not getting a shot of dawning comprehension, so she glanced at the taciturn Firestar, still in truck mode as the rest investigated the area.

"The opposite of 'burn my circuits,' " she supplied, transforming.

* * *

"_What_ are you doing?" 

Arcee realized that she was driving alone. "Why are you guys in a group?" she asked. The best way to protect the team was not to stay in a tight-knit clump in case of ambush, it was to break up and hide in good places. She told Firestar that. Firestar responded that the best defense was a solid offense-a clump of Autobots, tightly knit and less likely to be picked off by a sniper.

"That's awful! All it takes is ONE good ion bomb and your whole group is smelted!"

"That's myopic! How can you keep track of your group when you have to turn off your radios? What about the hidden spy drones that are all over the place, who can't count clusters?" Firestar protested.

"There aren't THAT many spies! Primus, how did you survive this long?"

Moonracer cackled. "Arcee's getting feisty!" She swerved off to the left to avoid a pothole.

The red Autobot gunned her engine intolerantly and announced that she challenged the assumption of 'divide to conquer.' Nova reminded her that Arcee came from a completely different army. It wasn't_Arcee's_ fault she had to follow such a stupid policy.

"STUPID!"

Firestar stopped them all and transformed, ducking behind a pile of rubble and signaling them to cease their argument. "Something's up there."

They transformed and reacted accordingly: Arcee dodged next to her as Nova drew out her gun and Moonracer took a few tentative steps forward, 45 degrees to her left in a move to protest Nova. They all paused expectantly.

"I'm not detecting anything," Moonracer reported after a long period of silence.

Firestar was the first to relax. "Okay. The next check-in station before our destination's in sector 1800-2569-63." They transformed again and rolled south, Nova and Firestar asking Arcee if she had anybody.

"Anybody what?"

They tittered. "Anybody special in your life."

To her, everyone was special. Springer was her mentor, Kup was a great advisor, Code Red was smart, Blurr was a good friend…Arcee didn't know, and responded as such. Was she supposed to have anybody?

"No," Nova replied cryptically.

"Only if you want to," Moonracer added in a strange voice.

Firestar screeched to a halt, transformed, and withdrew her weapon again.

Nova had become weary of Firestar's paranoia. "What now? The cloud of space dust in front of us looks like Alpha Trion?"

Moonracer laughed in a loud cackle.

"Stop!" Firestar hissed, ducking behind another pile. "Can you keep it down? This is a heavily Decepticonned area!"

Another linguistic anomaly Arcee had never heard before. These female Autobots were strange. Why were Nova and Moonracer holding hands? The rain drove harder into her optics, irritating her to the point where she needed a distraction.

"Is Moonracer your mentor?"

Nova gave her a strange look. "You are _such_ a different model. What's a mentor?"

"Oh." She hadn't ever considered it. "When I started here Ultra Magnus gave me a mentor, saying I needed somebody to guide me and teach about warfare. He didn't want me to just jump in without help."

She had not expected them to laugh. "You're in if you're ready or not!" Moonracer sneered, voice getting higher-pitched. "Why do you need help?"

Arcee felt stupid. These female Autobots didn't need assistance. Why did she? "Ultra Magnus just said-"

"What's a male Autobot going to teach you? How to yell at Megatron dramatically?" Nova was getting louder, too. Firestar scowled.

"_I_ had a mentor. Don't make fun of her, Nova. Just because they do things different here doesn't mean it's a bad thing."

Moonracer continued to giggle but changed her tone. "I'm sorry, Arcee. You know, it's got to be an honor to have Ultra Magnus as your mental."

"Men_tor_," Arcee corrected. "And he's not. Springer is my mentor."

Moonracer and Nova exchanged glances again. They asked her why she wasn't being taught by a Kup or someone better, which made a heck of a lot more sense than an arrogant triple-changer. Arcee opened her mouth to protest (although she had NO idea what she would say) and was interrupted by Firestar demanding silence; she'd detected non-sentient activity in front of them, possibly drones.

"Where are they?" Moonracer asked, suddenly businesslike.

"They're coming from-" a quick angry blast shot past Nova's shoulder, grazing the plating and making her cry out in surprise. "I told you to stop talking! _Get down!_"

Nova and Moonracer dove for the other pile, and Arcee decided to join Firestar.

"How many?" Moonracer hissed.

Firestar allowed herself to peek around a corner and scope the area. "There are too many places to hide. I don't know yet."

"I'm not waiting! I'll draw their fire!" Moonracer yanked herself away from Nova's grasp, ignoring her protests. She launched herself into the air, transformed, and raced towards the last suspected blaster location. Her taillights glowed enthusiastically until they disappeared in the dark downpour.

Nova didn't register any of Firestar's barking at her to stay with the group. She took off after her friend.

* * *

Firestar did not curse their adroit escape from her command, although she looked as though she were ready to. 

"She does that too many fraggin' times!"

Arcee glanced at the red female, curious.

"How did you become a part of this group?" she asked.

"I was Inferno's protégé a very long time ago," she replied, peering around the corner of their protection and firing off a few shots. "We need to cover them better. Moonracer's tires have been shot out." The words were barely out of her mouth when an invective replaced it when a barrage of laser fire came out of nowhere. She reached out with her arm and pushed Arcee out of the way in time for a short blast of laser fire to graze her plating.

"They're closer than I thought," Firestar hissed.

Arcee, terrified, grabbed her blaster. "How far away are they?"

"Two bree-" before she could react, Arcee had leapt up, fired a few shots, and ducked back down, reloading.

"Closer than that!" the pink female retorted. "I think I missed one, so do me a favor and shoot from your side and I'll get from mine. "Ready? Go!"

She launched herself forward and transformed, barely giving Firestar any time to follow suit.

"To your left!" she called.

Firestar took the shot anyway, skidding out and crashing into a wall. Arcee opened fire on the drones that had bothered to show themselves. Drones were stupid that way, revealing themselves when they shouldn't and becoming easy targets.

She could see the smoking hulks of Moonracer and Nova before her and about twelve drones around them, looking up in shock as she opened fire. Clever drones: they'd been programmed to attack all at once, instead of the earlier models that waited one at a time like bad K'ung Fu mooks. They blasted at the red truck and managed to shoot out her tires. Arcee hoped to pull Firestar back with her and from a clearer spot be able to dispatch for help to a VERY upset-sounding Kup.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Never mind that! I need HELP!"

Firestar managed to transform out of truck again ("Stop doing that! You're going to break something!") and took stock in their situation. "We have to move in now. They're carrying the girls away."

The girls?

Arcee decided not to ask questions until backup arrived. She reloaded her blaster and followed Firestar into the caravan of drones bent on absconding with 'the girls.'

* * *

"I can't believe it!" Firestar fumed, slamming the last of the doors behind her. 

Arcee hitched the offline and increasing in weight (so it seemed) bundle that was Nova higher onto her shoulder. Blurr came from out of nowhere to help her and regretted it when both she and Firestar unleashed their wrath on him.

"Nobody told _me_ you sent a distress signal! If you had I would have helped but did you – noooo –so why is it my fault-" Blurr protested hotly, Nova's energon smearing all over his face as her stained hand brushed up against him.

"I lost your distress signal and couldn't locate you!" Code Red interrupted, coming up behind with Kup and Springer in tow. "What were you doing out there? You could have been blown to smithereens!"

Springer had the ability to bear massive weight, something that had wowed many an Autobot. "You KNOW that Shockwave's drones are combing the planet to find us! We've lost Autobots out there before! You should know better!"

"Arcee, you didn't ask for permission to go out there! We had no idea where you were!" Kup added, brow ridge furrowed.

Chromia took Firestar by the shoulder and lead her away, demanding a report. Ultra Magnus loomed behind her like a huge wreckage pile. "You did not have permission to go on an expedition."

The large group of female Autobots were giving each other a myriad of speculating expressions, none of which looked pleased. Eventually the crowd subsided, once she'd apologized, and Ultra Magnus became aware of the large pastel congregation before him. He stormed out with Elita-1 close behind him and Chromia heading up the rear.

Mercuria, silver and speculative, spoke up. "How much would they yell at Code Red for doing the same thing?"

Arcee realized that she was all alone in this hallway, because all of her teammate had carted off the wounded. "They wouldn't. He doesn't do stupid stuff like this."

"Stupid stuff? The search party Elita-1 sent out was _stupid_?" another female demanded.

Arcee felt somewhat trapped by the conversational corner she'd painted herself into. "Honestly? Yeah, it was dumb. You don't send a party that big and you don't do it when we have a decent supply of energon and don't want to risk being detected, and you DON'T do it without asking Ultra Magnus first."

The others were not going to take this lying down. "In our army we don't believe in tire-watchers."

The word was lost on her; Springer came back from med bay to talk to her and noted that she had melted into the glaring crowd to the point that he had to call her name to find her.

* * *

Henceforth it was near-impossible to find her amongst that large conglomeration of females. Arcee had blended into their group as seamlessly as vodka into water. One time Blurr had thought he found her twice, but one was Elita-1 and the other had been a trick of the light. 

"I didn't get to go with you."

Arcee looked up from reading the datapad she wanted to send to Ultra Magnus. "What?"

Springer gave her a long-suffering look, one that she had learned to read a long time ago. "What happened?"

Nova had hustled them out so fast, and Arcee had been so excited, that the whole thing was a giddy fog until they'd been well on their way.

"He'll come with us next time," Moonracer had declared.

Arcee looked at him now, face turned down as though she'd denied him a handful of energon goodies, and snorted.

"You missed getting yelled at, that's what happened. Even Kup is mad at me."

Springer sat down next to her, to show that he wasn't, and instead jokingly complained that he always missed out on all the fun. He wrapped an arm around her, per their usual routine, and for some reason…Arcee was embarrassed. Perhaps it was that look Firestar was giving her, or the way Nova and Moonracer were snickering.

"Well, we can't be in on everything," she replied, a bit more lack of sympathy than usual percolating in her voice. Her mind was already mired in the datapad before her.

* * *

Inferno had warned her about it; although she'd ignored him most of the times he'd begun lecturing her about anything that didn't involve firefighting: Rescuer's Syndrome. The moment you looked into the optics of the individual who was saving you and you fell in love-but not _real_ love, it was the gratitude and relief of no longer needing to panic, the signal that you were going to live, and that everything was going to be fine- was a moment for whoever it was who had saved you to become a GOD. 

Firestar had deflected many a pursuer in her old days, understanding why they revered her. She'd brought them back to life. Decepticon torture chambers and conflagrations were no longer an issue; a smiling face was there to make the demons go away.

But when the tire was on the other axle…maybe she didn't like the feel of it.

Firestar, old reliable stolid Firestar, hadn't felt the earth below her move when someone came near her in such a long time she'd forgotten what it felt like. Arcee got along with her friends (hot), she had a sense of humor kind of like Moonracer's (pink), she was very polite (car)…her…assets were amazing…

Did the room just get warmer?

This was silly. The female Autobots were here today and scrap tomorrow, even if they found another base. Arcee was an intelligent soldier and a fellow comrade, nothing more, nothing less.

"Arcee was looking for you," Mercuria reported when she walked in from monitor duty.

"I've been here the whole time, what did she want?"

The elegant silver warrior shrugged. "I do not know. She asked me to tell you that she was looking for you, if I saw you."

Firestar stood up and decided to go elsewhere. "Well, you saw me. And told."

Mercuria, used to Firestar's lack of reaction to any type of information, merely nodded absently.

* * *

There had been several discussions regarding how they would sort out the mess as to who had claim to what part of the base. 

Ultra Magnus insisted that the females share with them before they all had to leave. They all needed to recover, it would be better that he knew where they were since they did not have an established radio connection, Elita's troops were still too weak from imprisonment to go anywhere, etc.

All legitimate reasons. Elita-1 and Chromia knew better than to look a gift base in the vestibule and quickly volunteered to help his company feel comfortable with the sudden influx of personnel.

This was a source of relief for Ultra Magnus, who had feared a fight or some kind of noble drama about leaving them alone, as had been the case with the other random teams he had stumbled across. Elita-1 was far more practical a leader, thank Primus.

* * *

"There you are!" 

She sounded so happy to see her. Firestar turned back to her work. "I have monitor duty. It wasn't a big secret."

Arcee tapped her arm playfully, taking a seat next to her. "I was looking all over for you."

"I wasn't hiding." Firestar saw Arcee's smile falter and felt guilty. "What have you been up to?"

"Springer got over us not bringing him."

There was no comment about this, merely a small sneer and a return to work. Arcee felt the need to give an excuse and moved her seat a little closer.

"I guess I hurt his feelings."

Firestar really wanted her to not talk anymore. Arcee had a lovely voice. It made her energon pump beat faster. "Maybe this is out of line, but it seems like he's WAY too familiar with you to be just a mentor."

Arcee hadn't thought of it that way. "We usually have fun together; it's not that big a deal. I think he was more worried about me disobeying orders."

"WHAT orders? Nobody directly ordered you to stay put!"

"No…" They _hadn't_, come to think of it.

Even when perplexed, Arcee was captivating. It still amazed Firestar that Arcee's mentor hadn't tried to woo her.

Or maybe he had.

"How close are you to your team?" she asked, keeping an optic on the monitor screen but trying to give the pink female attention.

Arcee glowed enthusiastically. She loved everybody in this group. Springer was her best friend, Code Red was nice, Blurr was a lot of fun to race, Kup told amazing stories that had the ability to pertain to whatever situation they were in, stories that had solutions that almost always worked, and Ultra Magnus was a great leader.

"We have our moments when we don't get along, but that happens with any army," she concluded.

Firestar hadn't had her questions satisfactorily answered. "Nova and Moonracer are really good friends," Firestar began.

Arcee interrupted. "They act more like they're a couple than anything else!"

"Right," Moonracer replied, trying to find a good way to phrase her next sentence. Arcee kept talking.

"I haven't seen that since Blurr got a crush on Springer and he had to pretend WE had something going on! I felt so bad for him, but Springer said that Blurr wasn't getting the hint."

Aha! "Do you still act like that?"

She looked confused. "No. When Blurr backed off we went back to normal. Honestly, it was very awkward. I can't think of him like that."

Firestar vacillated between inwardly smiling and frowning. The relationship with _her_ mentor was more than likely a rotten benchmark, but this sounded _very_ unusual, even for a group of Autobots that had been underground since their inception.

For the next hour the pink Autobot regaled her with stories of the disasters that swept the base when it came to other encounters with other Autobot factions, but inherently they tried not to mingle with her. The group dynamic would be ruined. Firestar supposed that Arcee must have assumed as such. There were other excuses she more than likely hadn't considered.

They talked, on and off, for a few more hours, and Firestar could not help but wonder how she would find a way to stop liking her so much, because it would hurt when the time came for either leader's troops to pull out.

"What time is it?" Arcee asked. She didn't like the response. "I have to go; I've got to do some maintenance work on Kup while he's stationary." She got up to leave and patted Firestar on the chestplate.

The red female whipped her arm around to block the unexpected assault, shocked. "What did you do _that_ for?"

Arcee cocked her head, confused. "Saying good-bye. Why?" They did it all the time: a fraternal pat with a laugh before they departed. Everyone but Ultra Magnus said a casual 'see you later' that way.

Firestar was taken aback. Didn't she realize that was a sensitive area? Apparently not; her innocent bewilderment spoke of the all-male Autobot culture in which she participated. Male Autobots did not have much feeling there, which made sense, but female Autobots did, which made none. It was a design quirk.

"Doesn't it bother you that they do that?"

"No."

Perhaps she should try a different approach. "We don't do that because it's _disrespectful._ That's a personal place, one we don't just reach out and touch."

"Oh." She looked crestfallen, as though internally chiding herself for not knowing that.

Firestar felt another surge of guilt; she should have kept her vocalizer inert. "You didn't know. Don't worry about it."

"No. No, I'll worry about it. Thanks for the warning," she replied absently, turning away in a daze.

_Why did you have to puncture her tire like that? It's a male Autobot thing and now you've got her feeling bad about it._

But it was inappropriate. Firestar couldn't let her unknowingly perpetuate such an impertinent gesture.

_It wasn't impertinent to THEM._

Well, it was.

_You'd better visit her here tomorrow, or she'll think you don't like her._

Firestar had not expected that thought. It scared her.

* * *

"We're going up for spare parts," Springer called over his shoulder as he passed Arcee at the monitors. "We'll be back later." 

She nodded, absently. Maybe Firestar would help slake the disappointment she felt in that she had to stay here while they went up.

* * *

"Hi." 

She'd been pacing outside of the control room door for a few minutes longer than she'd like to admit, finally forcing herself to walk in and greet the slightly morose pink female, who immediately brightened up at the sight of the red and yellow being before her.

Before she'd left the relative safety of the female Autobot meeting room Firestar, uneasy and anxious, asked Mercuria if she were attractive.

"You're not MY type, but you look presentable."

"Presentable?" The silver female looked fantastic all of the time. She was one of those Autobots whose appearance was amazing without much effort. She could dismiss her own opinion not as fact, even though it may have reason.

"You have that paint scheme that I'm not too fond of."

"What's wrong with it?"

Mercuria smiled her charming, innocent smile, the one that melted many but fooled none. "I just don't like it. But you're nice once we get to know you."

Nothing she said was comforting. Firestar's personality might not be the best. What if she said something stupid and caused Arcee to lose interest? Firestar didn't know what to do, and was certain everybody was watching and mentally shaking their heads.

"Anything exciting going on?" Firestar inquired, trying to get a conversation started.

"Kup took a team out. Springer and Code Red went with him."

Firestar debated asking if they did the chestplate tap before they left but decided against mentioning it. She decided to talk about something else: Arcee's usual everyday interests.

Arcee didn't really have any that deviated from work, war, or whatever was topically going on around the base. Ultra Magnus' team had shooting practices, games, sessions of sitting around and out-insulting each other, and on some rare occasions they even raced each other outside. Those were very sparse moments. Now that she thought about it…if she could, she would spend a lot more time watching the activity in space. Comets fascinated her. Nebulae were gorgeous. Asteroids were amazing. She did not get to see them very often, thanks to being constantly underground. She hoped one day she could travel to other planets, too. Ultra Magnus told her that one planet, Earth, was beautiful. She sounded so wistful when she said it. Firestar tried to smile at her.

"Inferno liked it, too. He said that there are all kinds of weird plant life, and there's a large sun in the daytime. At night you can see space, so it's great that you don't miss it."

Arcee smiled again. "That sounds nice."

It sounded terrible to her. When Optimus Prime had invited them down to Earth each female Autobot had refused with a resounding negative response. Arcee asked why.

"I belong here. The female Autobots are my team. They're my home."

"Inferno wasn't?"

Firestar shook her head. "No. Inferno meant well, but for some reason he made me feel like he'd never stop treating me like his girlfriend. He acted like a mentor, but when I had finally learned everything he could teach me he wasn't ready to treat me like an equal partner. I was still just his 'femme.' I kept asking him to stop but he wouldn't. Sorry, I should say _couldn't_. He _couldn't_ stop treating me like that because he didn't know any other way, and I didn't know how to change his attitude. So when I found a group who treated me like a regular Autobot, instead of an extension to his blaster, I couldn't wait. I love being with the female Autobots.

"I see how they treat you around here, Arcee. You get to be maintenance 'bot, you have monitor duty while they get to go out to find energon, even though you love being up there. They yell at you when you don't check with them to do the most basic things. They act like tire-watchers."

Arcee turned away from her monitor, puzzled. She looked so cute when she quirked an optic ridge. "What's that?"

"In the old days the Deceptitraans-or what they were before they became Deceptitraans-used to be given jobs like watching storage rooms or monitoring empty rooms. Sooner or later their jobs fell under the generic word 'tire-watcher.' It's somebody who hovers over you all the time and picks up after you and doesn't do anything useful but watches every move you make, even though it's a stupid and pointless job. When I said that I meant that they hover over you too much, and they don't need to."

"I had no idea what you meant," she replied, laughing a little. "That's not a bad choice in words, though."

It made sense. But Firestar didn't say that. Arcee had a nice smile.

* * *

They came back with big news: Optimus Prime had been sneaking up to Cybertron, freeing more prisoners and delivering energon. 

"He thinks that if he comes up one more time, we'll have enough Autobots free to occupy Sector Seven!" Code Red ululated. He had every reason to be excited; Sector Seven contained his hometown.

Ultra Magnus countered this exclamation with his usual damper of reality. Nothing was definite, and that any type of real estate reclamation would be a VERY long time from now. He and Elita left to plan another raid – rumor had it- but the rest of them had nothing better to do that evening than drink energon and socialize. After a long absence Springer had made Arcee promise to spend this evening with him. The usual period Arcee spent with her compatriots seemed a little _stilted_ this time around. She wanted to hang out with Firestar, Nova, and Moonracer.

"Why don't you invite your friends?" he offered generously.

Firestar was the only one willing to take her up on the offer.

Code Red sat them down in front of his and Blurr's bunks (everyone had to share, like it or not. Code Red did not.) and typed in a few numbers into the computer before him. "Outside perimeter with digits allowed, plus screw the dealer, is 625. Sprockets confined."

"7893!" Springer yelled as Arcee screamed over him "9045!"

"8954 6243 7689 9378!" Blurr hollered as Code Red typed so fast the screen flashed and beeped and made an odd whirring noise.

"You were all wrong. 3627." Code Red shook his head. "Weren't you listening? I gave a hint!"

"That round doesn't count! You didn't wait for Firestar's call," Arcee complained, turning to her friend in solidarity and noticing her expression. "Oh. You've never played before, have you?"

Clarifying a complicated game to someone completely foreign to it is never an easy task. Coupled with Firestar's discomfort at being there and Arcee's lack of enthusiasm to teach, it was downright daunting.

"Code Red will give us a starting-off point, or 'outside perimeter,' with the guidelines, like 'screw the dealer'-which means it has to be over 2000-or 'digits allowed-which means any size number-"

None of it made sense and she really didn't care. "I think I'll watch you play and you can explain it as you go," she suggested, taking a step back and nodding reassuringly.

Code Red didn't even wait for Arcee's reaction before he began the next round. "Outside perimeter, Omega-3, NO FISH…60."

They played on, Arcee losing most of the time. It took her about an hour to realize that Firestar was gone.

* * *

Springer had nothing more to contribute that night of importance. "She was bored, she probably tried to say something, and couldn't get your attention," he announced. His tone did not accuse, and Arcee debated digesting it that way, but she cared more about Firestar's wrath than anything else. 

"Let me go apologize," she wheedled. Springer wasn't about to let Arcee disappear for several hours, as what seemed to happen any time she wanted to take a minute to talk to the female Autobots, but he wasn't about to begrudge her something so simple.

"Go ahead. I'll see you later." Later meant 'next cycle.' He knew their reconvention was not in the immediate future.

Arcee sprinted down the hallway with that jaunty gait she had that made her look like she was dancing instead of running.

* * *

The smell permeated through the door, drifting down the hallway at a much slower rate than the sound of their voices: female Autobots talking and laughing. It sounded like a dozen engines running at different rates in the main operating room of the factory where Kup used to work. 

"That's a pleasant sound," He couldn't resist commenting.

"That's a pleasant _smell_," Springer countered, inhaling the scent. "What is that?"

"Grade JP072305…" their commanding officer sniffed appreciatively, "…circa year 8793969907." Ultra Magnus had a strange half-smile on his face.

Springer goggled. "You know _everything_!"

"I know polish," he stated, hastily doffing his wistful expression for a more authoritative one and knocking on the door.

Kup opened it and let them in to a strange site: female Autobots were everywhere; sitting, lounging, talking, laughing, smearing a sweet-smelling chemical compound all over their bodies and making them shine like starlight. Springer's optics lit up.

"Unbelievable," he breathed, looking around him as though he'd never seen the occupants of the room before.

Ultra Magnus went over to talk to Elita-1, as had been his original intention.

Arcee was carefully applying some onto a rag when she saw them and waved. The three females around her regarded the intruders suspiciously.

Springer sauntered over in time to see Arcee asking Firestar if she wanted her back done. After a millisecond of hesitation, the red female acquiesced. Springer asked himself if he really wanted to call Arcee out on her escape last night but didn't get the chance because of an interesting response to what was going on before him by the one least likely to respond.

From across the room Ultra Magnus halted his interrogation, mouth parting open into the thinnest meniscus of shocked distraction. Elita-1 twisted her head to see what had captivated his attention, alerting Ultra Magnus that he'd interrupted himself. He continued his monologue without any further revelation.

* * *

Springer followed Ultra Magnus to his makeshift office. "Chromia has given me a report on our energon reserves and they are at half capacity. At our current rate of consumption, we will be depleted within the next decacycle. You and Code Red are to report to Kup at the front entrance immediately." He watched him dutifully mask his displeasure with a somewhat stifled expression of his own. "Dismissed." 

Ultra Magnus watched him march away and scowled. It was bad enough that he had the stress of having to find another base; their interaction with the females was causing an over-inflation of his team's homeostasis, wrecking havoc on their supply accumulation methods, the covert safety of a small operation, and his duty roster. And NOBODY messed with Ultra Magnus' duty roster. That thing was a work of functional art, and with so many willing volunteers the careful balance between the hardworking war machine and the clump of bored troublemakers who gave him more work was being ruined. Ultra Magnus did not like his war machine causing him trouble. He'd fix this detailed issue, one way or another. Even PROWL called him 'overly particular,' but that wimpy Datsun had gone soft once Jazz had gotten his wheels on him.

Elita-1 had been notified, and she agreed that separation was ideal.

It didn't help that the whole place reeked of polish. It made him think of incidents best left forgotten.

* * *

Monitor duty had been, for the most part, its usual monotony. It was pleasant to be alone with Firestar in the comfortable silence they had grown into. Arcee made occasional narratives to entertain them. 

"I thought I'd keep you company, since monitor duty is better with someone to talk to," Springer declared, "Even though I hate it more than you." He barged in and flopped onto Firestar's chair as she finished an impromptu meeting with Elita.

When she came in Firestar was startled. Arcee stood up and let her have_her_ seat. She was rewarded with a smile, somewhat perplexed by this whole issue. Firestar looked away to glance at the monitor, pressing a button. "Incoming."

Springer tried to leap out of the room before she flipped the switch but it was too late. "Springer!" called an imperious voice.

Sheepishly, he turned back around and tried to look casual. "Hi, Prowl." Prowl was calling up to do the bi-cycle communications confirmation.

That was all he had to say. Arcee had heard enough about the double entendres this mech had dropped on Springer during their exchanges to enable her to put two and two together. So _this_ was the reason behind the trepidation in the monitor room. Her mentor squirmed with comic unease over the other mech's steadfast-and creepy-stare. _This_ was the guy Springer avoided like Cosmic Rust, huh? Ultra Magnus had called Prowl 'the best strategist in the Universe,' not 'A bigger lech than Blaster,' and from where she was sitting there was NO evidence in this particular encounter to reinforce his proclamations, either. Prowl was as flat and formal as a coat of matte paint. He even signed off with the formal benediction, instead of the accepted method of improvising his good-bye.

The minute he turned off the screen he bolted out of there, his mouth twisted in fear. Firestar returned to her place. "Does he always do that?" she asked.

"Do what?" Arcee replied, realizing that she could hear voices still being transmitted, even though the signal had supposedly been terminated. Springer had not shut off everything properly.

"You called up there without me again," a second mech on Prowl's end purred, sounding as safe and inconspicuous as a patch of black ice. "I'm startin' to think you're hiding somethin' on me."

"Don't be ludicrous," Prowl retorted.

"Riiight. Is that why you never tell me the right time you're calling, even though Optimus told you we both had to do it?" There was chuckling and minor clicks that sounded like they were gently hitting each other. "What's the real reason you don't want me to see who you're talking to? Is he hot?"

Prowl gave up a taunting chortle. "He's so irresistible you would steal him away from me."

"What!"

"Big blue optics, nice shoulders, gorgeous smile, Cloudstreaker green…he's perfect for you. He even _acts_ like you sometimes." His tone made the whole thing sound like a joke. Jazz was onto him.

"Now I know you're pulling my wheel."

"I am, idiot. Come here and show me how you'll keep me-"

The signal died, this time legitimately, causing Arcee to laugh, to Firestar's consternation.

"We could have gotten into real trouble!" she hissed, searching for a datapad to make a Communication Report.

Arcee let a slow smirk emerge onto her face as she watched her friend fret. "We didn't _see_ anything."

Firestar paused in her search. "We _didn't,"_ she realized. She started to chuckle and joined Arcee in a good long laugh.

* * *

Springer came back from yet another run early, hauling a heavily wounded Blurr and a few cubes. The arm that was smoking and melted, barely an arm, was the one Blurr clung to. 

"Do NOT go into quadrant C," he warned glibly, tipping over from Blurr's weight. Arcee hurried to help.

"What happened to him?"

"He was supposed to stay with me. He didn't."

"Prowl says 'hi'," she teased, reaching for the energon cubes. Springer grimaced. "Where is Kup?"

"Behind us somewhere," Springer replied. "He'll be fine. I'm sure he'll come back later."

Rage flooded her, took over, and forced her voice to waver. "But when I'm out with highly-trained soldiers _I_ could get blown to smithereens?"

Blurr was fainting from fluid loss. Springer staggered to keep him going. "Kup is a lot more experienced than you are. Can you get that door for us?"

She pulled away completely, not bothering to open any doors. "I see. It's different for you, instead of me. Well, don't let me get in your way!" She stalked off, ignoring Springer's calls that Blurr was on the floor and impossible to lift up again without help.

* * *

"What was THAT all about?" Springer demanded, hurrying after her as she rushed to let in Kup. He'd returned, a few hours after Springer and Blurr's arrival, with a bundle of concentrated energon rods and a story to tell. 

"What do you _think_ it was about?" she snarled, closing the entrance after Kup and taking some of the energon out of his arms to allow him to maneuver. "If I go out with three experienced Autobots you yell at me for not asking you first and you trivialize my mission. You do the exact same thing, leaving Kup to himself with_who-knows-what_ trailing after him-"

"Blurr was INJURED!" he protested.

"I had injured on my team and we came back _all in one piece!_" She spun so fast the energon rods whacked against her mentor. "I'm sick of your smothering!"

Kup flung himself in between them and tried to give a placating yet authoritative expression. "He doesn't need to worry about me because I know more ways to get out of trouble than heknows how to get _into_." She had such an aggressive stance he was somewhat concerned. "Arcee, I need your help installing these. Springer, how's Blurr?"

Springer did not step back from the icy lock he and his protégé held, although his expression was more confusion than resentment. "He's stable."

"Would you do me a favor and see if he managed to keep the microchip I told him to hold on to?"

"Sure. Excuse me." He backed away, eager to leave the angry grip of Arcee's glare until he could turn a corner.

Kup gently guided the pink Autobot in the direction they needed to go. "Why don't we talk while we install these?"

* * *

Only two mechs were allowed to barge into Ultra Magnus' office, and Kup wasn't one of them. He curtly cut out his commanding officer's irritated barking rebuke with a report. 

"Interesting message from Arcee. She feels unappreciated."

Ultra Magnus snorted. "Show me someone in this army who doesn't feel that way and I'll show you a liar. Or Code Red."

Their commanding officer cared for the psychological well-being of his soldiers…in his own over-structured way, an age-old truth that Kup had been navigating around since Day 1. "The difference between Code Red and Arcee is that Code Red complains when it doesn't matter and Arcee complains when it DOES."

"Code Red complains. Period. Arcee complains. Ellipse..." He glanced up from his datapads for completion.

"Ultra Magnus proves he knows punctuation but not his army. Exclamation point."

"Kup leaves my office – comma - and leaves me alone to finish reading the form he brought me. Or better yet, since I know what it says already, would you like to read _this_ form...question mark." His lips moved when he read, but other than that, there was not much of a reaction. When the passing of information was complete Ultra Magnus nodded and Kup stared, tacitly asking for something improper without saying a word. "Go on, talk to her. You know what to say better than I do."

Kup nodded and obeyed.

* * *

"This seat taken?" 

She looked up to see a friendly face. "Did you-"

"I've talked to him," he interrupted, before she opened her mouth. "I knew you'd ask. Can I join you?"

She waved her arms to the vast expanse of ground. "Help yourself."

Kup gingerly sat down next to her, silent. Arcee waited. The old mech offered her an energon goodie, that she accepted.

"I want to tell you a story," he began, pausing for any protests. She offered none.

Prior to his confrontation with Ultra Magnus, Kup had discussed with Arcee several issues that had been gnawing at her conscience: why Springer was her mentor instead of him or Ultra Magnus; why it seemed that she had no real footing to prove herself a capable warrior-even when her behavior in certain situations proved otherwise; how the frustration had piled up to the point where her inner turmoil resulted in eruptions of behavior that kept her status as 'immature' reinforced. Kup had answered some questions but others he had held out on replying until he could acquire permission from a superior officer. "Arcee, you wanted to know why Springer is your mentor," he continued. After she reluctantly nodded, he picked up the tempo. "When you came here, there was a fight."

Here it comes. Nobody had any inclination to teach her.

"Every single one of us wanted to teach you. There was a huge argument over it. Eventually we had to rely on a random number generator. The winner got you."

That made her laugh. "I don't believe you."

"Believe it. We could see your potential right away. Ultra Magnus wanted to train you, but he decided to be fair. You know, you're his favorite."

"Who else will watch over everyone and make sure someone's minding the fort?" she demanded bitterly.

Kup considered this. "There's some truth to that. He likes you the best because you're like the Autobots who used to be HIS superiors. To them, the soldiers came first and no task was too unimportant. You remind him of that every time you're out there. Plus, you're a great shot. You and Springer clear the way for the rest of us." He offered another goodie, which she refused. "And if it seems like Springer's smothering you, it's because you're the only thing in this whole army he takes seriously. Mentoring is an intense job. If he lost you, he'd never forgive himself. Just keep that in mind when you make your decision."

Arcee watched Kup struggle to stand up, succeeding. Joints popped and snapped. "What decision?" she asked.

"Elita-1's announcing it right now: that energon collection wasn't just a collection; Code Red went out and found another base of operation. We're leaving." His kind old face glowed benignly, but there was something sharp in his optics. "You don't look very happy about it."

She wasn't. But how did she tell Kup that? He couldn't read her mind.

"Why don't you make an appointment with Ultra Magnus?" he suggested. Kup seemed so uneasy about giving this advice, as though he thought Springer was the only one allowed to talk to her.

"What will that do?" she asked innocently.

"He might let you stay."

Maybe Kup WAS a telepath.

* * *

Where was she running…and did it matter? No. Dark hallways oozed over her head, tunneling her vision but she didn't see it. All this blackness and she was a bright pink Autobot weaving her way around piles of rubbish and garbage like a glow-in-the-dark _target_. Move move move move MOVE! 

How did Firestar know where to find her…and did _that_ matter? Yes. She didn't even stop running until Arcee completely encapsulated her.

"How did you find me?" the pink Autobot demanded.

"Are you staying with us?" she countered, hand caressing the side of that stunning face she couldn't stop thinking about.

Arcee leaned in and gave her answer.

Firestar gasped, arms flailing desperately around to bring her closer, if only for the moment never expected but longed for all the same. Arcee _did_ want her, and if Firestar could have her she would.

They couldn't stay there. As dark as it was, there was a constant danger of discovery (the bad kind). Arcee knew of a movable pile of junk that would give them cover and time for another type of discovery (the good kind).

It was dirty and nasty, but Firestar was so close to her Arcee could hear her machinery working, and it was exciting. It seemed like they were committing some kind of illicit act, one that felt like a giant wall that they must surmount.

Springer had taught her a lot of things, including the generic way to please your partner. He had warned her that this was for instructional purposes, and that she should not confuse the feelings she felt for anything serious. Now that she had someone's body pressing against her, Arcee could feel the full weight of anxiety's crush. What did she do first?

Firestar didn't seem to know, either. She shifted uncomfortably, moving to her side so that they were facing each other, on equal ground. Smiling, she leaned in for another kiss. More kissing. As nice as this was, something was absent. Firestar pulled away and gave her a questioning look.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Uh, I, um…no." What was she supposed to say?

Firestar smiled at her. "I thought we'd go slow. You are _so_ beautiful…" she kissed her again, carefully moving her lips to fit Arcee's and press against hard enough to elicit a reaction. "…and you-" kiss "-probably don't even realize it."

Arcee shivered involuntarily. It motivated her to move her hands up to the chestplate Firestar had so zealously protected, dragging fingers cautiously, tapping carefully what had felt nice on HER when Springer had done it, hoping that this was correct.

"No, over here…that's it." She hadn't been even close. Firestar didn't sound inconvenienced. Arcee moved more to the left. "Ooh, hold on, that's a little too good."

"Arcee, come in!" boomed an unwelcome voice over her radio.

Leave it to Ultra Magnus to ruin a romantic moment. She'd been summoned to his office. Reluctantly, they kicked part of the pile out of their way and carefully untangled themselves to make their way upright. No one else was around, but Arcee still felt her circuits burn. Firestar kissed her good-bye, stating that she'd be in the communications room if needed. She would be needed. First, Ultra Magnus must be addressed.

He towered over her, dark hulk refusing the dim light of his office to pass his massive shoulders. Never smiling, always serious, he stood like a huge imposing mechanical gun tower over all of them. Arcee wasn't as intimidated by him, now that she knew she was his favorite. She maintained her pleasant demeanor as he scowled.

"Elita-1 has requested your transfer to her army to remain as a chief communications officer/liaison between us."

Arcee nodded.

Ultra Magnus shook his head.

She took a step back, not allowing herself to show too much apprehension. "This is what I want."

He didn't waver. "You're needed on your current team. Moonracer has been their liaison and she has been more than adequate."

This large, hard, stoic mech, was immobile. He was an impasse. She had to get him out of her way or she would have to kill him. "I entered this army on my own. I can leave it on my own, too."

Ultra Magnus seemed to have an answer for everything. "When you came into this army you agreed to my leadership, right or wrong. This was part of our pact."

The pink Autobot had no idea how she could illustrate her resolve, so instead she clenched her fists and tried not to get hysterical, although her voice was rising in pitch. "You can't _do_ this!"

"I don't think what I can or cannot do is the issue," Ultra Magnus retorted as the door knocked and Springer walked in. The carrier lifted his head slightly to welcome his guest.

He came in with his usual casual stance and playful smile. "You wanted to see me, Ultra Magnus? Hi, Arcee."

Ultra Magnus nodded in Arcee's direction. "She wants to join the female Autobots."

Her mentor's gentle demeanor completely stalled and slipped into disbelief. "You're not going to let her, are you?"

"_Springer_!"

He continued to stare at her with complete astonishment. "Is this what you want?" She nodded. "Really?" She nodded harder. He reacted by shrugging. "Let her stay, then. If she hates being here so much, I'm not going to keep her around."

This was unexpected. "I never said I hated it here!"

"If we mean so little to you that you'll throw us away and act like we're scrap the minute another group of Autobots comes along, and you want to be with them instead of being with the army that took you in, then fine."

"This isn't just another group of Autobots Springer, they're female Autobots. I belong with them. I'm female!"

"So what? I'm a triple-changer. Does that mean that I'm something special, too?" He turned to face her, blocking Ultra Magnus. "Well, yeah, it does." He stopped and smiled in his usual flippant manner. Arcee glared.

"I want to go where I think I'm most useful."

"You're useful here," Ultra Magnus retorted beyond Springer.

The panic was mounting, becoming more and more turbulent as it rolled over her like angry waves of anxiety. She decided to use Springer's own tactic against them. "If my own mentor thinks that I'm so ungrateful as to throw away being oppressed by this army, instead of being _trained_ by the female Autobots, and that's what gets me to stay, then you can take that perspective if you want. I'm sorry I assumed you wouldn't be so selfish as to see it that way, Springer." She marched to the door and left without being dismissed. "I guess I was wrong," she called over her shoulder.

Springer turned back to glare, cross-armed, at Ultra Magnus. "She wants to stay."

He glared back. "Too bad."

* * *

Firestar stood up the minute she entered the room, hugging her and sneaking in a light kiss on the cheek before whispering a prophetic warning. 

"Don't let anybody see us together," she whispered softly, rubbing Arcee's back up and down. "Or they'll think it's the reason you're joining."

Moonracer hugged her next. "You're going to love it with us. It'll be bolt."

Nova hugged her too. "Elita-1 got a datapad from Ultra Magnus before you got here. She's not happy."

Arcee hurried to meet up with her. Elita-1 nodded solemnly. "I agree with his decision."

This should have surprised her, but it didn't. Elita was just as stoic as Ultra Magnus. The two had a lot in common.

"But you could teach me so much about being a female Autobot!" she protested, realizing that she might sound like she's whining if she weren't careful.

"Negative. There is no difference between the training you would receive in our encampment and here."

She could contest it. She should. But Springer's cavalier dismissal had stung. He thought she wasn't at odds with this, as though it were an easy decision. It was. That was the problem. It hurt that she wanted to go so badly, and it hurt that everyone knew and did nothing to make the pain lessen.

Arcee did not protest Elita's pronouncement. Instead she answered "I do not agree, but I will comply."

The chuckle came out like a soft rumble. Just like Ultra Magnus'. "A mature response."

Her head rose sharply. "What makes you say that?"

The other pink Autobot looked uncomfortable. "Ultra Magnus has ingrained a sense of duty in his soldiers that for some reason has not been transferable to my team. I envy his technique."

"I don't. If he were a good leader he'd do what was best for me, and Springer would agree to it. I bet neither one of those two has had to give up someone he cared about more than anything else just because it was good for them." If Elita was going to show her interior, so should Arcee.

Elita did not know if that were a fallacy or not, but it made her reconsider her earlier compliment. "Who are you referring to?"

Firestar had _warned_ her. "Springer," she replied, giving a nonverbal signal that she did not want to discuss this. Her commanding officer ignored it. "He's allowing me to join, but not with his blessing. Ultra Magnus was the one who denied your request."

"Chromia has volunteered to discuss the matter further with Ultra Magnus; however, this is informality. We are officially accepting his decision." She smiled wistfully. "We would have enjoyed your talents on our team, and your leaving here is unfortunate."

Arcee had no reply, except for "Affirmative." Elita accepted this response and allowed her leave.

* * *

Moonracer, Nova, and Firestar were desolately grouped together, staring at Springer and Blurr with barely concealed antipathy. They looked back with similar expressions. Arcee knew she had to diffuse this situation, but had a feeling that she was the cause of it, especially when Springer refused to meet her optics and Firestar gave a miserable sigh. 

"If I may have a word with you, Arcee, please," Ultra Magnus requested. She complied easily.

The large blue impasse began walking away, motioning for her to follow. Arcee did so.

For a few moments he did not speak. Arcee decided to take the initiative. "I have something for you," she announced, producing something from subspace. "It's not much, but Kup told me you liked it."

Ultra Magnus regarded the can of polish with an unreadable expression. Arcee feared the worst. "It's not a bribe, it's a gesture of goodwill. To prove there are no hard feelings," she rushed, before he could say something back.

The carrier still did not respond. Arcee nervously looked ahead of her as she tagged alongside him, telling herself that she had spoken her piece, now it was his turn.

He began without preamble. "I've lost too many Autobots in this lifetime, Arcee. I forgot that what is necessary to say is typically not said, based on the assumption that you already know what I think. This laconic character flaw of mine has caused me to make yet another mistake." He looked at her with huge blue, obdurately immobile optics, but he had- was that a smile? "I came to tell you that I appreciate you and all that you have - and still – contribute to this cause." Praise from Ultra Magnus was like getting love from Shockwave. It just wasn't possible. She didn't believe him.

"Is that why I can't stay? Oh, sorry."

"Forget it," he returned to his grumpy face. "I should have told you what you wanted to hear in the first place."

"You mean-" As she stared at him, openmouthed, Chromia walked out of a room with Kup and gave a report that Prime had radioed them with a request for a meeting. Ultra Magnus addressed this and dismissed them, still refusing to complete her sentence.

Her steps hurried to catch up with him as she stuttered some kind of request for further elucidation. Ultra Magnus was letting her stay…wasn't he?

"Affirmative."

She had no idea how she'd managed to be trailing a few steps behind him one minute and full-on tackle-hugging him the next, nor was she aware of how much this embarrassed him, and she didn't care, either. She was going to be with the female Autobots.

She wondered if the ebullition that threatened to consume her would, and if it did, could she take Firestar with her? She sprinted off to tell the good news.

* * *

"Megatron has been changing the shifts of his spacebridge guards at random to the point where my departure time has been altered again," growled their superior officer. 

Ultra Magnus nodded curtly. Elita-1 didn't look at the image of him, preferring the datapad before her.

A long time ago she and Optimus had agreed that they were not anything more than a shadow of their former selves, having evolved into something different but essential, and should therefore no longer continue the charade of courtship. She was sure he had gone back to his celibate ways, like he had been when they had emerged from Alpha Trion's garage.

"We're evacuating the area at time 300 tomorrow."

"Affirmative," he replied in that tone he took when there would be casualties. "I will be distracting Shockwave as Elita's troops are freeing prisoners and Ultra Magnus' team is moving."

"That will not be necessary," she protested in a bored voice. There was no point in saying this; Prime did things his way or the highway.

"Negative. It will be my honor to help you in this mission." Ultra Magnus nodded encouragingly.

Some things obviously never change: Prime would ignore her concerns, Ultra Magnus would support Optimus, and Elita-1 would deliberately ignore their irritating personality traits.

At least two thirds of her problem would be leaving tomorrow.

And Arcee was STAYING!

* * *

For their final evening together, Springer broke down and gallantly offered Arcee his congratulations and best wishes, which earned him the reward of sharing a plate with the pink angel who had been cradled in his arms for so long he had trouble recalling any time he was without her. It was all he could do to keep from tying her up and hiding her in the deep recesses of the catacomb-like basement the females would call home a little longer. Instead they lay there as they always did, in a platonic cuddle, unable to speak but needing to say so much. 

"You were right," Springer stated, voice loud like a balloon bursting in a library. "I _am_ selfish."

"I didn't mean it," she protested, to no avail.

"Did you know I had a minibot?" She shook her head, optics bright. "Cutest little thing. He was a botanist before I got him into the act. Grasshopper."

"What happened?" she asked, lifting her head to meet his optics. All she got for her trouble was a shrug.

"Don't know. Probably died in prison, or worked the mines, like a lot of the minis and females." His voice went darker, throbbing with a longing Arcee couldn't bear to hear. "When I got to mentor you I promised myself I wouldn't go overboard to compensate, but I did." He clutched her tightly. "I messed that up. I'm sorry, honey."

Up until this very moment she had hated that seldom-utilized nickname. She missed it already.

"I will come back." She knew that this was the standard issue Autobot promise to make, articulated even on the eve of suicide missions, but for her it was a vow. She needed to get away from this mech, but someday they would be reunited.

"I know you will," he replied. His hand softly stroked her back. "I'll be waiting."

* * *

She didn't see them off. They had to creep out of the base, one at a time; thus before they left they came into the Monitor Room to bid good-bye. 

"I hate long good-byes so good luck see ya later don't be a stranger-" Blurr hugged her quickly, patting her on the chestplate affectionately.

"'Til all are one," Kup murmured in paternal tones, squeezing her hands and nodding with a saucy smile.

"Work on your gameplay," was Code Red's benediction.

Ultra Magnus did not come in. Elita-1 explained that he was leading their first rescue mission. The bad news was that once Springer left, the female Autobot army had to leave, too; Code Red had been spotted and it was only a matter of time before the base was discovered.

Arcee had no time to talk to Springer. He hugged her goodbye at the door, transforming and flying out in time to be chased away by drones. Ultra Magnus barreled past her with a few Autobots on him, bellowing at Arcee to MOVE, they were under attack! The drones behind her convinced her to get going.

* * *

Firestar had been one of those on Ultra Magnus, being a truck. Faster cars raced ahead or dragged behind to take out the artillery dispensers coming at them from far away and closing, catching up when they lagged too far. Arcee recognized where they were going and felt a twinge of anxiety. Did Optimus know they were coming? Who would she ask, Ultra Magnus or Elita-1, and _could_ she? She normally asked Springer, who knew more than she, but he was long gone. It must be time to fall in line and just roll out until Elita or Chromia said something to her. 

That came in a judicious enough span when they pulled up to a large purple tower and the wall exploded outward, drones and a Decepticon Arcee had never seen before flying through the debris.

Optimus Prime stood in the middle of the hole, light pouring out around him, highlighting him. His optics blazed with righteous fervor as he growled "Any other objections, Wildrider?" He had no time for an answer as a bat-like creature swooped down, shooting and screeching.

Ultra Magnus unloaded his precious cargo in record time, transformed, and ran to help Prime, leaving the female Autobots to their own devices. Chromia and Elita-1 wasted no time in sending Nova, Moonracer, Arcee, and Firestar to the detention blocks. The girls (she should call them that, now, she supposed) squeezed past the imposing mechs blocking the entrance and veered off to the left, transforming to cover more ground.

Nova had a map in her datafile. "Ultra Magnus told me that Optimus hasn't been to cellblock 1624-ZZ yet," she reported over the hum of their engines. "If Moonracer and I deal with the drones and you free the prisoners, we'll-"

"MOVE!" Moonracer yelled as lasers screeched at them. She veered off to the left but due to a lack of debris to hide behind, they were too vulnerable to do anything but pull a Prime and blast a hole in the wall to dodge out of harm's way. "Wait for us to clear them out! You check the map!" she yelled, drawing her gun out and giving a conflagration of ammunition worthy of her name. Moonracer added fire to the fire.

Her words went unregistered in Arcee's processor. "What is this place?" she demanded, mired in the dank scariness of it. It must be some kind of laboratory, or factory-often it was hard to tell with Decepticons, and Arcee was still too naïve to differentiate. She'd been created in a place like this.

"Who cares? We have a job to do!" Firestar grabbed her arm and dragged her past the empty equipment to another hallway. "Nova gave me the map." Instead of racing down the hallway Arcee pulled her closer for an unexpected kiss.

"Sorry. I've wanted to do that for a whole cycle." Without acting contrite at all, despite the apology, the pink female turned around to transform.

"We've got a ways to go, and we have to wait for the others," Firestar managed to warn, although she was smiling. "Keep your scanners on."

* * *

There seemed to be a million turns to get where they were going – even with two excellent navigators, there were too many directions to go to figure out what was going on. 

"We're here!" Nova announced, slightly regretful that her journey staring at Moonracer's taillights was over. They transformed quickly, although Firestar was moving as slowly as possible so as not to activate any motion sensors.

"Shhhhhh…" Firestar was doing a precursory scan of the area and not liking what she was reading. "There are no signs of functioning robots here."

Nova got her weapon out and crouched down low. Moonracer did the same. Arcee noticed something odd…the main door hatch controls were turned off.

"Is it a trap?" she asked Firestar.

The red Autobot shook her head. "I'm not picking anything up. This might be an inactive detention unit."

"No kidding!" Moonracer called from inside one of the cells. She had-AGAIN-ignored any type of precaution that might have been required to get to where the action was. Firestar clenched her fists in exasperation.

"Primus…" Arcee whistled.

Bodies were everywhere. The dark unlit optics glimmered in the faint hallway light of the ashen gray corpses stacked like sheet metal…but nowhere near as tidy. The team could barely discern each body from the other.

It was unsettling for all of them: Nova, Firestar, and Moonracer because it reminded them of their previous incarceration; Arcee because she'd seen so much suffering in these places.

"That is _weird_," Nova commented from the other end of the room.

She stood by a pile of robots fanned out in a circle, surrounding one mech. Their fuel lines were all attached to his chest as they demonstrated their eternal devotion to an offline being, a morbid spectacle for only the dust particles to witness. Moonracer, frightened, told Nova to get away from it before they all came to life and devoured her. Nova told her not to be so superstitious; she bent down to see if she could resuscitate the mech the others had sacrificed themselves for, shaking him slightly. His optics lit up for the barest of seconds and his hand reached out and grabbed her arm.

"AUGH!" she screamed, wrenching herself free and dashing for the door with Moonracer at her heels at twice her volume.

"AUGH!" Arcee screamed too, kicking a body out of her way to get outside first.

"WOULD YOU ALL SHUT UP?" Firestar hollered after them, choking on the cloud of dust they left behind. "THE DEAD DO THAT SOMETIMES!" Still, she did not want to be around this. Just to make sure, though, she had to check that mech's vital signs. It was terrifying. He did not repeat his action, proving that it had been a momentary impulse signal sent to his brain, and that he was too far depleted to be anything to them but a lot of weight. She hurried out of there.

Once Firestar had left the cell, she realized that the others had taken off without her in their haste to get away from the 'zombie.' It was sheer luck alone that in their panic they had driven off in a straight direction, otherwise she would have never found them.

"Go_this_ way!" she called, veering off to the left.

"No, it's this way!" Nova replied, turning to the right.

A few turns later and nothing looked familiar, though. Moonracer thought they had gone in circles. Firestar was not sure. Maybe they could ask those drones for directions.

"Slaggit!" Nova yelled, pulling out her back-up gun. "I'm almost out of power and we haven't gotten out of here yet!"

"Fire all at once!" Arcee suggested.

Firestar commanded on the count of three, they fire. One, two-

Five blasts discharged and decimated the hapless drones.

"Their lack of a frequency's going to give us away!" Firestar announced, reloading as she deduced this. "Arcee, get in front of me! Moonracer, Nova, behind, and you-" she stopped her speech and pointed her gun at the fifth being with them. "Who are YOU?"

The mech's proud smile melted as he shyly backed away from the blaster aimed at his chestplate. He backed into Arcee, optics brightening in greeting.

"Are you my mother?" he asked.

She shook her head and tried not to laugh at Nova and Moonracer's mystification. "I'm Arcee. Who are you?"

He stopped to consider this. "Hot Rod?" he guessed. The others glared, exasperated, forcing him to continue this thread of processing. "I came online when somebody kicked me."

That would have been Arcee. But how did he get here?

"The cell door was open."

His responses pegged him as a recent sparkling. Newer beings were often stuck reliant upon literal interpretations, until they had experienced the myriad nuances of communication. Firestar kept her temper and asked how he had managed to catch up to them.

Hot Rod shrugged. "You passed by twice. I thought I'd come with you this time."

Nova lost her patience. "That means we've been driving around in CIRCLES!"

Moonracer threw her hands up in vexation. "Great! Now what?"

Inspiration hit Arcee like an oncoming asteroid. "We make our own way," she announced, selecting a spot of wall and pulling the trigger. The partition melted like third-rate steel. Hot Rod peaked out and glanced up and down the new hallway, thoroughly impressed.

Nova was not. "Bot Con-"

"_Hot Rod_," he corrected. She shoved past him anyway.

"_You_. How long have you been functioning?"

He frowned perplexedly and shrugged. "Since Arcee kicked me."

Firestar went into Heroine mode by lowering her own weapon and approaching the mech with the most welcoming of postures, letting Arcee slip behind her. "Hot Rod, I'm Firestar. We're Autobots." With that, she pointed to the sigil adorning her chest and pointed to where his would be, she surmised, if he had a particular affiliation. "What are you?"

Moonracer had crept past the two to investigate the new hallway, which Nova claimed appeared familiar. "NOW I know where we are! Bolt! This way!"

Hot Rod looked around his body for any telltale marks and saw nothing. "I don't know."

"Who made you?" Firestar was hard to hear over Nova trumpeting that they had to GO, NOW.

All Hot Rod could recall was flashing lights.

"We're out of time. Hot Rod, you're an Autobot. Transform and roll out." She changed shape and gunned her engine, but the recipient of her command stared at her with roiling confusion.

"Do_what_?"

They were out of time. "Forget it! Arcee, come on!"

"Wait!" Hot Rod ran after them in a panic, which induced Arcee to stop and transform to face him.

"Hot Rod…the Autobots are in a war to protect everything we hold dear from the Decepticons. If you want to join us you can, but at this moment, I can't tell you everything at once, and believe me, there's a lot and it's confusing. What we do is assign mentors. Your mentor will tell you everything you need to know." Ultra Magnus had given her this speech a very long time ago, when she had been rescued and disoriented and unable to take in all of the chaos around her. She had gratefully reached out for the figurative hand and entered a world that would have shocked her creator had she survived the destruction that had decimated her to see what had transpired.

Purple and green beams of concentrated light speckled the air in a beautifully threatening clump. "ARCEE! WE'RE UNDER FIRE!"

Some of the shots ricocheted off of the walls and forced them to duck, but Arcee kept her focus on the very bewildered mech before her.

"Join the Autobots, Hot Rod."

He continued to give her an expression of timorous fear, as though he still wasn't sure and wanted her to convince him that it was a good idea.

"Will you be my mentor?" he pleaded, grabbing her arm.

Primus, no. She could see herself pitching into the yawning abyss of being responsible for another individual when she wasn't ready for it- just like Springer- and it terrified her. She didn't know who she was; how could she teach another to be the best HE could be? It was not feasible. Hot Rod would be malnourished under her tutelage, that much was certain. Springer had been a bad choice for her and she had just NOW been able to find a place to grow and thrive. She was not capable of teaching Hot Rod while _she_ herself was learning.

Unfortunately existence does not allow you to plan half as well as you desire. Hot Rod needed guidance, and he had asked her. Perhaps a stronger spark than hers would help.

"Yes." The onslaught of blasts had ceased and the team was moving out again. "Do you know how to transform?"

He did not. Arcee slowly guided him through it, although she was not a very good teacher and did not have the patience. At moments like this she wished she had the ability to explain things as well as Ultra Magnus did. Hot Rod folded into a sports car and cautiously rolled forward on his wheels, brakes squealing with freshness.

"Wow!" he chirped.

"Follow me!" she called, pulling out in front of him. "We need to catch up to the others."

* * *

Firestar was awed. "I've never been able to teach anyone to transform. How'd you do it?" 

Arcee couldn't recall. Moonracer told Hot Rod since he was the newest recruit he'd have to do what everyone else told him, or he'd get into trouble. Nova snickered and commanded him to drive ahead to divert drone firepower.

"I take orders from Arcee. She's my dementor," he announced defiantly.

Nova and Moonracer cackled like they always did, while Firestar informed him that there was no such thing and that he'd better do what they said, and for the first time Arcee felt somewhat chagrined. This was not the way to treat somebody. She pulled up ahead to be with Hot Rod, although Firestar was not pleased.

Chromia impatiently awaited their arrival. "That's it?" she demanded. It sounded as though Hot Rod were not good enough. Moonracer transformed and gave her report as the others followed suit. Firestar nudged Arcee and pointed to the sports car below them.

"Arcee," he hissed. "How do I get out of this?"

"Never mind," she replied as the rest of the team (minus Elita) was ushered out by Chromia.

"Roll out!"

Arcee was even more displeased by the way Chromia was issuing rapid-fire questions at Hot Rod. Where had he come from? Who made him?

"You'll have to excuse me for interrogating you like this, but we've been infiltrated before," she explained. Arcee could recall this questioning, too…as well as the time in the brig before the medical exam. The very memory frightened her all over again.

"I understand," Hot Rod replied, saturated with innocence. "Arcee said I'd be confused."

"Did she?" Chromia sounded more irritated than relieved. After a few moments of reflection she ordered Hot Rod to stay close to Arcee, peeling away from them to catch up to Elita, who was deep in conversation with Optimus Prime up ahead. A long distance away loomed a large blue carrier, the last link to Arcee's past, winking in the light as he left her without saying good-bye. How like Ultra Magnus.

The idea flashed with the winking light bouncing off of her former boss, forcing her to swerve off to the side to transform.

"Hot Rod!"

He screeched to a halt and revved his engine, awaiting orders.

"Do you see that carrier over there?" she asked, pointing to the east.

"The blue one?" he replied.

"Go with him."

"What?"

"You heard me. Do not let him out of your visual scope! **He's** going to be your mentor. His name is Ultra Magnus; just tell him Arcee sent you."

Hot Rod's motor died down to a low grumble. "You don't want me anymore?"

She was saving him from a fate of being the odd mech out, from questioning who he was, and why he was there, but his only response was to feel rejected. Had she ever been that raw? "I want you to go with him!" she yelled, panicking. "That's an order!"

He gunned his engine, made a three-point turn, and peeled off. When she saw his taillights glow with what LOOKED like a similar distance from her that Ultra Magnus had, she turned back into a car and hurried to catch up with her team. A laser blast from behind announced that Shockwave's drones were not that far convinced that this was a good idea, too. There must have been thousands, shooting their weapons with their radios echoing Wildrider's commands to leave nothing behind but the scent of burnt rubber.

They lost them somewhere around the western hemisphere, when the whole lot of them fell into a large pit that had some poorly-buttressed areas.

"We're not far from Wheeljack's old lab," Prime commented.

Elita-1 got made a request. Prime told her to be his guest.

* * *

Arcee came into her new quarters and flopped down onto the bed. She let out a long, dragged-out sigh, an exhalation one makes when Elita-1 hears what happened and gives a dressing-down not easily forgotten. 

"What's your punishment?" Firestar asked. Arcee coming in woke her up.

"I have…monitor duty."

Ironic. "Not a bad punishment," the red female rationalized.

Arcee flopped onto her. "I have it until the end of time!" she moaned. "I didn't think it was THAT big a deal to send a new recruit to another army!"

Firestar let out a low chuckle. "You'd think," she couldn't help but comment.

Arcee got it. They both enjoyed the humor for a moment and let their merriment decrease until they were merely cuddling in the dark. Firestar let her hand go from comforting to stimulating. She savored the soft moan it produced.

Arcee rotated around to get better access. "I think I'm home," she announced with a big smile.


	32. Snow Bunny

When it came to making complaints, Ultra Magnus was either a continuous circuit loop or a dormant volcano, depending on which you were more likely to prefer tolerating. Tracks waited ten minutes and chose his poison.

"Spit it out, Maggie."

The look he was rewarded for his cheek was an amalgam of contempt, annoyance, confusion, and exasperation.

"1) don't call me that, 2) what does 'spit it out mean' 3) I have too much to do to waste it on this pointless exercise and 4)-"

"-Shut up, Tracks," the smaller mech interrupted, grinning with as much charm as he could. There was that _look_ again. Tracks sighed as Ultra Magnus gave a long, sweeping appraisal of the gently sloping mountain-a hill, really, by Cybertronian standards, but the topographers had called it a mountain, and it had a lot of frozen water on it. There wasn't much variety, color-wise; nothing but white as far as the optic could register. Snow smoothly covered all of the trees with a lovely pale canopy, a sugary white/blue that lay soft and sleepy, like a blanket left on the couch. A long corridor, treeless, yawned before them in a promising way, as though to allude to adventures that were BEGGING to be had. Ultra Magnus made a grunt of approval and turned back to his hopeful amassing group of Autobots, still pulling up from the long trip up the mountain, some impatiently waiting, equipment in hand.

"It'll do," he announced. They needed no further instruction.

With a burst of energy and noise-accentuated by Blaster cranking his stereo as loud as it would go before he was hushed, for fear of avalanche ("Perceptor, your real name should be Killjoy!")-an entire metal army bustled about and forward. Autobots were transforming, some were tying skis to their wheels, others had boogie boards dredged up from Primus-knew-where, but none could match the eagerness and agility of Springer, who'd been dying to do this ever since it had been suggested at a meeting. He leapt onto his homemade snowboard and zipped down the mountain so fast Blurr was dismayed.

"Hey! Wait for me I was on my way why didn't you wait-" he called, whizzing down the hill.

"COME BACK UP BY THE ROAD!" Ultra Magnus called.

"Last one down's a rusty mackerel!" Arcee cried, next to be ready. Tracks nearly took her out in an unexpected curve when he'd caught up and swerved to avoid a last-minute rock detection. Ultra Magnus plotted it on his chart.

Rodimus radioed from Autobot City to report that Sky Lynx had taken a few Sweeps out and had them for lunch, and would be bringing Wheelie, Daniel, Kup, the Dinobots, Warpath, and Pipes up to the mountain in a timely manner.

Springer came back up covered in scratches. "You can mark off the pine tree in Section 8-H," he reported. "It won the battle but lost the war. Inferno had to clear it out of the way."

"Part of the agreement we made was to leave this area as pristine as we found it!" Ultra Magnus exclaimed, writing up a damage report as he spoke. "When this is over you'll be putting your planting skills to work and replacing anything taken out!"

That was not a reminder the triple-changer cared to indulge. "Yeah, whatever," he remarked, sprinting a few hundred feet to descend down the hill again before the Aerialbots beat him to it.

The Dinobots arrived so excited it was almost impossible to get them to stand still long enough to strap on their skis. All but Swoop insisted on going down in Dinobot mode, making Ultra Magnus nervous about any instinctual fire breathing that might decimate the population of trees. So far, so good.

Blurr and Sunstreaker crashed halfway down the mountain and became a liability until Perceptor figured out how to stop mid-coast, which took so many tries Swoop offered to CARRY him over, and to avoid the humiliation a determined microscope went down using his lens as a crude brake. He drifted down with a livid Sunstreaker, followed by Blurr, both emitting language foul enough to turn the air bluer than it was already becoming as the short afternoon wore on.

A snowball fight started the minute the Protectobots showed up from patrol, and it didn't stop until Ultra Magnus drove down there to physically break it up. "Keep going down the hill," he ordered them. "Don't deviate from the schedule." The massive uphill departure caused a traffic jam that –again- required an officer's intervention. A few decided to wait.

Any Autobot who could fly did, and the Corvette with wings was no exception. He carried his boom box buddy with him, both laughing so hard when they finally arrived that they could barely talk.

"Jazz doesn't know what he's missing!" Blaster chortled as he helped Tracks back onto the board. Some had put skis on their tires instead of going down in robot mode, but Tracks and Blaster loved the human aspect of going down the mountain a lot better.

Tracks agreed. "He'd be going Olympic on it!" Ultra Magnus overheard them but refrained from adding to the conversation regarding the absent Porsche. Jazz's reports from New York regarding Sparkplug's garage foreclosure read like John Grisham novels; drama peppered with necessary legal statements, not really telling him anything of use but would be considered entertainment by the majority of the population. In an odd display of tact Ultra Magnus did not upbraid him about content, primarily because if Jazz hadn't gone Tracks would be the one not aware of what he was missing. Ultra Magnus had volunteered to lead this latest caper partly to boost morale, but as an offshoot of Jazz's generosity. Ultra Magnus had wanted more time with Tracks and better darn well utilize it. Of course, Tracks' time was spent as _Tracks_ dictated it, and all Ultra Magnus could do was follow along and keep things orderly, like now, when Wheelie and Warpath were facing off to argue over who's turn it was and who got there first.

Perceptor had helpfully calculated the average travel time per Autobot down the hill in that the mech who went next had to wait a certain amount of time before following the preceding skier. Warpath, still a beginner, had the longest downhill time. He crept down the mountain, stopping a lot, thus his lack of aerodynamics kept him from gaining any type of momentum, and when compounded with a talent for falling…well, Wheelie didn't want to wait that long, which was understandable why he wanted to go first, even though he had not arrived before the tank.

"Warpath goes first," Ultra Magnus announced. He went unchallenged. Wheelie muttered something about an 'abominable snow-truck' and whatever would rhyme with that-and it sounded nasty-but he waited his turn.

Inevitably, as it does on this planet, the daylight hours were waning far sooner than desired. Aware of their limited time, some ganged up on Ultra Magnus and with persuasive peer pressure and talked him into going down the mountain _JUST ONCE_. Tracks and Springer offered to follow him down, Blaster told him he'd put him on one of the radio frequencies to keep in touch, Daniel declared it would be easy, since he knew where all the pitfalls were, and Kup told him that everyone was doing it.

"If you don't, you won't be cool," the geezer teased.

"Just do it. You need to have some fun," Tracks wheedled as Arcee handed her over boogie board. They began to chant as one.

"Doo it, doo it, doo it doo it-"

Ultra Magnus jumped on that plank and whizzed down that hill so fast the applause still rang in his audio sensors by the time he'd made it down.

It wasn't bad. The cold air was a nice rush. There wasn't much to the handling, once he'd gotten the hang of it, and unlike Warpath, his massive bulk wasn't an issue, for once. He'd shown _them_. He glanced back up the hill to see where the two who'd offered to follow were. Not too far.

"Look at him go," a disembodied voice commented.

They were on the radio, obviously not the frequency Blaster had chosen, because Ultra Magnus hadn't heard him say anything. That was Air Raid's voice.

"Hawt," another chimed in.

"HIM?!" That was Silverbolt.

"What? I'd hit that. Even if he's part car."

Ultra Magnus prided himself on his ability to creep around without being seen. He wondered if this were required, since he wasn't sure where the Aerialbots were standing, and more than likely they were at the bottom of the hill, because they hadn't been at the top. He couldn't pretend to not be listening if they could see him. He remained where he was.

"He can fly," the last voice continued.

"Barely," Air Raid sniffed.

"Yeah, but who else would you go for? Wheelie?"

"There's a snow bunny that _no bunny_ would want."

The others groaned at the pun and berated its delivery. From the top of the mountain Autobots were waiting for their last turn before they packed up and left. The sun had ducked behind the ridge a long time ago, and headlights were burning, although they were not to be trusted.

"I'd SO hit that," the voice repeated.

"Go ahead," Silverbolt snapped. "I've worked too long with him, I know better. Good luck wrestling him away from you-know-who."

So they _were_ smart enough to cover their tracks.

Speaking of which-

"Ultra Magnus!" Springer had made it down the mountain first. Was Tracks all right? "Yeah. Inferno didn't clear away all of the root structure on that tree in Section 8-H and he had a spill, but he's ok." Sure enough, the errant mech was gliding down the mountain with the aplomb of a foreign dignitary…covered in snow. His white wings, sticking up in odd angles, still had the white stuff coating them in some places. It aroused something in Ultra Magnus that Tracks recognized the minute their optics met.

"Once everyone is at the bottom of the hill, Springer is going to do a check to make sure we left the area clean," Ultra Magnus radioed to Blaster, on the second frequency. "YOU take attendance. I have another errand."

Tracks couldn't hold back the resigned sigh but the chuckle that went with it took off any edge in the delivery. "What would that errand be?" he demanded, not even waiting until Springer had transformed out of there before sauntering over to be in his commanding officer's firm embrace.

"You said I needed to have some fun..." Ultra Magnus replied, pulling him onto the other side of the road where they wouldn't get caught. What could be more fun than bagging a snow bunny?

Later on, they realized that this wretched white powder leaves traces of any retreat, and that the Dinobots were far too curious for their own good. But that's another tail.


	33. Thunderstruck

There was tired. There was exhausted. There was depleted.

Thundercracker was RUN-DOWN. He could barely lift his legs enough to keep the momentum necessary to move him down the hallway at a decent pace as he traveled to his quarters, let alone see what was going on around him. Everyone ELSE got a break after their sound defeat at the hands of the Autobots, but not Thundercracker, noooo. Starscream put him on surveillance duty and told him to shut up about it or else. (There HAD to be a way to kill him off without Megatron getting mad at them for doing it first, there just HAD to be. Thundercracker had wasted the last of his processor power reserves coming up with nothing.)

The most annoying aspect of the underwater base was the timing of all major lights to coincide with the daylight hours of their resident time zone, which meant in the winter the whole base was shrouded in darkness sooner than he liked it. Not only was it ideal for the more dedicated mischief-makers, it made Thundercracker even MORE lethargic, if that were at all possible. By the time he'd punched in his chamber's security code he was so tired he had neglected to notice a very affectionate Skywarp waiting with nimble fingers.

"I wanted to dig into you all day," he trumpeted, grabbing his mech by the waist and pulling him close. He paused a minute, cherry optics glittering as he took in that gorgeous face, and then he leaned in to kiss him. Thundercracker jerked his head away and tried to escape the embrace.

"What?" Skywarp demanded.

"I'm tired."

"So? I'm not." Skywarp was a lot of fun and a great friend…but he had an irritating habit of being far too intrusive when the time wasn't right. He made a grab for either black hand and pulled the one he captured. "C'mon, T. You got out of it to be with me, right?"

Thundercracker only heard half of what Skywarp was saying. "I'm tired, Skywarp. Maybe tomorrow." Why wouldn't he leave him alone?

Skywarp heaved an angry sigh and climbed onto the plate. His arms enveloped Thundercracker and he rested his chest on the other's to better get to him. "Who took your place?" he asked, stroking those gorgeous striped blue wings in hopes to get a rise out of them.

Why wasn't he making any sense? "For what? My shift ended. Dirge, I guess."

"But Dirge took _my_ place last time! It's going to look suspicious if we keep asking him to cover for us!" The wings weren't quivering like they usually did. "T, it's the first of the month."

Thundercracker almost bashed Skywarp's cheek in, he bolted upright so fast. "SLAGGIT! I'M SCRAP!!" Thundercracker scrabbled for some kind of footing to bolt out the door, kicking his lover off of him.

He _forgot_? How could he forget? He dashed out the door and ran back in, panicking.

"Warp! Get me over there! NOW!"

Skywarp grabbed him and transported him to Megatron's door, sighing as he left his favorite mech alone to ring the doorbell and shake with fear.

Thundercracker had totally forgotten. _Completely._ It was Starscream's fault, more than likely, for making him so tired he'd shut off everything but the essentials, but their leader did not care for excuses and finger pointing; this Decepticon was going to be SMELTED before the cycle was over.

No one was answering the doorbell. This must be some kind of suspenseful wait before the inevitable smackdown -as he'd heard Rumble call it. Thundercracker rang the bell again, tentatively calling Megatron's name.

Clank _Clank_ Clank _CLANK_ CLANK _CLANK_. Someone was coming, PLEASE let it be Megatron, late as well. The footsteps were long enough to be a larger mech; it had to be. They were slowing down...

"One side!" Starscream announced, shoving impasses out of his way and barging into their leader's quarters as he usually did. "Mighty Mega-" He veered back out immediately. "He's not there."

Oh thank PRIMUS.

"I'm right here, you idiot!" It sounded as though had come up the other way, a soundless approach. "I have warned you about entering my chambers without permission!" He paused in his speech, taking a minute to gesture to the imperceptibly trembling blue mech before him. "Go in and wait."

Thundercracker nodded while he made his escape.

The door shut behind him with its usual booming echo, which was much more muted on this side. It made being there all the more intimidating. Should he climb onto the plate? No, too presumptuous. Waiting by the door would make it look like he was eavesdropping. Perhaps being NEAR the plate might work; maybe even kneeling. It had been a very long time since he'd been here, thanks to Megatron's long absence, some coincidental days off, and creative bargaining. No wonder it hadn't been foremost on his processor...

He'd drifted off while waiting; the bang of the door revived him. Megatron advanced, filling Thundercracker with a primitive fear that had to be tamped down to keep him from showing it. Presenting any sign of weakness guaranteed a beating.

He hovered, partially shadowed in the upper lights, mouth smeared in contempt. "You were late."

Slag. Starscream had drained whatever goodwill would tolerate a cheeky response, and groveling never worked. "It won't happen again," he promised, bracing himself for impact.

"It won't happen again..." Megatron descended lower, resting a hand on the edge of the recharge plate-either to keep his balance or to block a way out, more than likely the latter-and stared down at Thundercracker harder. "...a strange guarantee to come from one who has carefully avoided fulfilling his commitment in the last six solar cycles. It might not happen again, I would be led to conclude, because it will be a VERY long time before the chance for it to occur will arise."

Still no hit. Was he waiting for Thundercracker to lift his head? He might as well get it over with. "That's not right. I-"

"Are you saying that I am wrong?" No trace of a smile, no light timbre, nothing gave the hint that this was playful teasing; Megatron was ANGRY. Thundercracker was not good at slipping out of bad situations, and this was getting worse by the second. "That I have not followed logic to its obvious conclusion? Am I slow-processing?"

"What am I gonna say that'll make you not hit me?" Thundercracker asked, finally giving in to fear and using his arms to shield his face.

The fist went into his cockpit instead. Glass crunched, metal squeaked, and wires protested, but his leader did not hit anywhere near as hard as he could have. The shadow lessened as the silver mech wrenched his fist free, stood up, and walked over to lock the door.

"Nothing," he replied, as the entire room imploded to black.

* * *

Barely glimmering in the deep recesses of Megatron's chamber Thundercracker's optics gave off a futile shine, as though sight itself were too taxing. This was not usual.

"You are depleted."

Even though his face was not seen, his distrust of his leader could be detected. Thundercracker verbally fidgeted, stumbling in the dark over his attempt to say that indeed, he was exhausted (and that it was Starscream's fault), but that it would not interfere with his long-overdue tribute.

"Of _course_ not," Megatron replied, feeling more sarcasm could not be drawn out of him if he tried. (And he'd thought the visitor _before_ this one tested his patience.) "Although the way you're lagging about illustrates that you will be as worthless _here_ as you were in _battle_." He had to kick him; if he didn't Thundercracker would spend the whole cycle waiting for it. Megatron had a certain behavior pattern he had to follow in order to get his underlings to fall in line, one that called for infrequent deviations or else his reputation would change and he'd have a handful of Starscreams instead of one.

THIS Decepticon, however, could be dealt with using a more random modus operandi. Thundercracker was proud - a thinker, delicate with his moods and processing abilities. He did not have to adhere to the same protocols the others did, which gave Megatron a little bit more room for...creativity.

"Get on the plate," he ordered. The blue jet obeyed.

Instead of joining him, Megatron considered his options a little better. Thundercracker was, as previously conjectured, useless to him now. Maybe he'd be of better employment later. Megatron eased onto the recharge plate himself and chuckled at the delicious sound of snoring. Thundercracker hadn't even been able to keep online for two seconds.

Thundercracker, whether he realized it or not, had enormous appeal that no one could define or explain. Mixmaster drooled over him without bothering to cover up his obvious attraction; Skywarp pretended to ignore him but the electricity between him and his trinemate was constant; Soundwave said nothing…but stood a little too close to him whenever he could. Starscream sniffed to conceal jealousy but had little to say, considering HE himself had gone through a cute little romp with his subordinate once upon a time. There was a _reason_ why Shockwave had been returned to Cybertron after his stint as a prisoner on Earth, and it wasn't just because of his memory wipe. One of his prison guards had been a distraction, apparently. Megatron distrusted anyone more appealing than he, but killing Thundercracker would raise dissent from his admirers, therefore the logical choice would be to claim the Seeker as his own to keep anyone else from becoming Thundercracker's ally.

In other words: this particular Decepticon required a different type of approach from the others. The malcontent had been brewing inside of Thundercracker's processor for far too long, and anything that might make Thundercracker dissatisfied could not be ignored or dismissed. Megatron had more trepidation regarding Thundercracker than Starscream, because Starscream had a lack of appeal and charisma, but if he ever teamed up with someone charismatic or appealing-someone that already had a bevy of admirers-

Megatron had ways to keep his underlings under him, no matter how different the personality.

* * *

Thundercracker came online with a start. "Slag!" he cried, cringing at the set of red optics glowering at him.

"Your excessive use of that particular profanity has begun to _annoy_ me," the owner of the optics growled.

He began to apologize but was silenced with hard unforgiving fingers pressing his mouth shut. That particular gesture was a very specific signal. Slowly, carefully, he parted his lips to allow Megatron to slip two of his digits in. His tongue bent to a concave arch to better accommodate, but Megatron did not take his cue, preferring to slide his hand down Thundercracker's face to his shoulder, moving back to Thundercracker's wing.

The red optics continued to smolder in the dark. It was a familiar lambency to Thundercracker, one he'd seen a million times, whether on this plate or amidst battle, the luminous glow that transferred Megatron's desires more than any verbal pronouncement could: he was READY. Time to get into character.

"Master," he whispered provocatively, giving off his best helpless expression.

It made the Decepticon leader shiver. Nobody else called him that. How Thundercracker had discovered this particular fetish must have been purely coincidental, because Megatron himself had no idea he even had it. The way his low voice rumbled in subjugation…it made his hand curl involuntarily around the wing it had been caressing.

The pain was sharp but not intense. Thundercracker pretended to like it with a half-smiling smirk followed by a private chuckle. There were no responses to his noise, though. Megatron seemed to continue to scowl pensively in the dark.

The hand shoved him away as the fingers released him. "Go offline," his leader commanded. "You are worthless to me this depleted."

WHAT? He'd say something, but there were a finite number of replies to that particular statement. Besides, who'd argue with that? He WAS tired.

BUT…

This might be a trap. Thundercracker lay next to Megatron, not touching him –not even his wingtips – and debated what to do. Should he initiate interaction anyway? Take his leader's words at face value?

The red optics beside him extinguished completely and the inner mechanics clicked to the softer 'standby' noises. Megatron was offline.

* * *

There were dreams.

Skywarp, legs askew, bright optics, mouth constantly biting in between leers as Thundercracker moaned impatiently while the purple mech continued to refuse to release his field, granting satisfaction.

Skywarp, across the room, his back turned away, fine little skidplate curving in such a perfect shape it was impossible not to reach over and stroke it.

Skywarp in jet mode, soaring over Thundercracker's cockpit, exuding far too much appeal for one mech.

Music-

It was no surprise that Thundercracker's system became overloaded with emotional arousal and forced him to reboot and come online.

As was habit, he was comfortably settled on the chestplate of his lover, head where the juncture of arm met body. This was not Skywarp, though. Great. Now he was feeling frisky and there was nobody but Megatron.

Hmmm.

He'd never stayed a cycle in this room before. He'd never been allowed to recharge without paying his respects to his leader first, either. Come to think of it, Megatron had never been late before, and had not been resentful of any of Thundercracker's prolonged absences, either. It seemed very unusual that so many precedents had been ignored. He pondered all of this and decided that anything frowned upon outside of Megatron's chambers might be more than welcome _inside._ After all, if so many unusual things were acceptable, perhaps trying something new might be, too. There was only one way to find out.

He started by doing the one thing he and Skywarp had constantly gossiped over: he gently glided his lips over Megatron's before molding them, forcing them open gradually with his tongue and tracing the inside.

Megatron pulled away, giving a started snort. "Who gave you permission to do _that_?" he demanded.

Thundercracker had a moment of déjà vu. He _had_ to stop chatting on instant messenger.

"I want you," he explained, planting his mouth on the purple Decepticon symbol scowling on his leader's chestplate and giving it a twisted lick.

Megatron responded by chuckling and tilting his head back, pushing Thundercracker's head up to countenance his.

"Impress me," he commanded.

* * *

He could do anything and would.

Although the OTHER Decepticons didn't share information with each other and eschew gossip in all forms, bit by bit Thundercracker had gleaned data from his fellow soldiers, and all of his accumulated facts led to a terrifying conclusion that when it came to chamber antics, Megatron liked variety.

He started with what he'd been doing earlier; peppering tasty little kisses interlaced with the flicker of his tongue at random intervals in certain spots. When Megatron said nothing, Thundercracker allowed his hands to roam, messaging delicate circuits and wiring that sent electrical currents up to bite his fingertips. Still no audible reaction. Thundercracker decided to up the ante by rising up in order to blow his air intakes against Megatron's vulnerable areas, to no avail.

Perhaps he should try another approach. Pushing a little harder sometimes worked on Skywarp when he was not in the mood for gentle caresses. Maybe even a little biting, which had been Ramjet's parcel of advice, too. Megatron did not even twitch. Wildrider – before he'd been assigned to Cybertron - had told a disturbing story of money-maker shaking. Thundercracker wasn't sure he wanted to get up and do that, although if he didn't get a reaction from the mech below him he might have to.

Megatron's optics were off, assuaging the worry of judgment; on the other wing, it made Thundercracker feel as though he were attending to a corpse. He made no noise, no movements, NOTHING.

Skywarp had gotten a spooky datum from Vortex: Megatron liked to watch him pleasure himself. Thundercracker sat up, legs straddling the mech below him, and tried to moan provocatively. His attempts to find a place on his body that tickled when stimulated seemed more difficult than usual. The optics below him remained broodingly dark.

"Master," he crooned softly, feeling wrong just saying it. It worked so well, though. Dual beacons flared alive in all their crimson glory. "Master, the very idea of pleasing you…excites me…." He tried to produce an expression of agonized erotica but must have looked like he'd been knocked over by Motormaster because there was laughter to meet his gasps.

"You look ridiculous," Megatron announced, shifting uncomfortably. His shoulder squeaked, which is what it did when it needed oiling. You couldn't tell HIM that, though, unless you were Hook. Anyone else who perceived weaknesses would have to explain why they were looking for them.

"Stop touching my face," he snarled next, annoyed that Thundercracker had disregarded the unspoken commandment of avoiding Megatron above the neck.

"That does nothing."

"You are wasting your time."

"Cease that endeavor."

Thundercracker wished Megatron would go back to not responding. His dissatisfaction was worse. He knocked Thundercracker's hands away when not pleased. He snarled when exasperated. He _hit back._ Thundercracker would not give up. The only thing left to do was to hit him with a wave of noise. He had a big one building up, throbbing exponentially to a gorgeous wave of reverberation-

Fingers closed around his throat and clenched like a vice, aborting his boom. The pressure squeezed tighter too long, only to be minimized by the discomfort of the arm possessing the hand to bend Thundercracker closer, pulling him optic to optic.

"You are dismissed," Megatron announced, hauling the Seeker up and over to the floor.

Even though he had broken free, he could still feel the fingers poking into sensitive neck areas, and if he were human he would have coughed. His air intakes sputtered as it was, although they had the grace to keep the noise muted.

"I can _do_ this, just let me-"

Megatron sat up. "Do not provoke me again."

"But I ca-

He was off of the plate and carrying Thundercracker to the door _by his neck._ His air intakes screamed but waited until he'd run away before faltering. He needed them, too; he'd overheated from the fear that had assaulted him.

_Dismissed._ The word rushed around his processor like wind in a storm, snarling just as accusingly. He hadn't made a single impression on Megatron. More thank likely he'd be punished or publicly humiliated for this infraction.

From the hallway intersection in front of him a low noise crept up to Thundercracker's audios, barely discernable, like Ravage's paws treading, but heavier, like Steeljaw's. Whoever it was, it would be a bad idea to chase it, especially if the owner of said footsteps had overheard something. He probably hadn't; no noises escaped Megatron's chambers, but still…

Thundercracker turned a corner and sensed someone hiding in one of the myriad rooms that resided in this corridor.

Frag it. He turned around and went back to _his_ room.

* * *

There was no one to greet him.

NOBODY.

"Where are you?" he radioed to Skywarp.

"My place."

Thundercracker heaved a sigh and made the journey over….although he kept getting the feeling that he was being watched. More than likely, he WAS being watched; this _was_ a Decepticon base, after all. Still, there was something odd about it. Soundwave's tapes were less detectable than neutrinos, and this being allowed his energy signature to emanate enough for barest detection-not to mention the being allowed his mechanical works to be audible-putting Thundercracker on edge. There was Skywarp's door…and it was not opening.

"Are you coming over?" Skywarp rumbled through the wall. He didn't sound thrilled with the prospect.

"Yeah. Open up, this is embarrassing!" No doubt the surrounding inhabitants all heard. He switched to comlink communication, although that was dangerous. At least it wasn't as public.

"No!"

Thundercracker took two steps backwards. The being behind him did too, like a shadow would. "What do you mean, 'no?'" he demanded, staring at his communicator in disbelief.

"I can't be with you-" Skywarp went reticent and finally sputtered more of the sentence, "-not after you've been with _him_." Thundercracker took another step back. The Shadow did, too.

"What, I'm tainted now or something?" This had never been an issue before, why now? Skywarp was full of slag!

The Seeker on the other end of the radio refused to elucidate. "Just go back to your place, T. Shower."

"Skywarp!"

"Bye. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He did not respond to any more entreaties to reply, nor any pounding on the doorway. Thundercracker debated either kicking in or blasting in his door, even raising his arms to do it, but the Shadow behind him suggested that more than likely his actions would not yield any desirable results. Besides, he would have to explain to Starscream what he was doing up in this corner of the Decepticon base. (Megatron had ordered Skywarp's relocation as part of the punishment of catching them together.) Skywarp needed a good beating, however, and Thundercracker promised that soon enough. There were other ways to avenge himself.

"Mixmaster, come in!" That'll teach Skywarp. He could hear him shuffling insides his chambers.

No one responded.

"Mixmaster! It's Thundercracker! Come in!"

"He is preoccupied," a smoother voice growled.

"No he's not! Let him talk to me!"

"I d-d-d-don't want to. Leave me alone!"

"Comeon! I just want to talk."

Nothing.

"Fine, nobody likes your crazy ugly tailpipe, anyway!" he caught himself jeering. Slag. That hadn't helped.

He had to get out of the hallway before anyone had a chance to gloat. Already the sounds of snickering were buzzing around him. Mixmaster had _rejected_ him. That crazy ugly MESS of a Decepticon had the nerve to get uppity with him-

He had to walk faster. The Shadow continued to trail him, all the way back to his chambers. Thundercracker knew it couldn't be a small being, its stride had to be long to keep up with his, and it couldn't be an Autobot; the energy signature was poorly hidden, although this could be a trap, and if it were one of the Special Ops, then it might be a trick, and the only way to find out was to lure it into the main room and have enough room to fight it. The minute he'd entered something skidded across the floor and passed him, bouncing off the wall and sliding to a stop a few meters later.

Human technology had changed over time when it came to sound production. It had started with odd shapes and settled on flat black circles, which evolved into Eight Track and cassette tape, and was even now more commonly seen as a compact disk – which more than likely would change again – but this was a cassette tape. A Sony 60 minute cassette, black, with white paper and a label written in English with a black Sharpie (he remembered watching the creator of this tape write on it, large fingers smudging a corner while he was cursing its diminutive size). The ink hadn't faded but the accenting colors of the tape label had, making the black letters stand out more.

'Thunderstruck.'

He tried to shoot it but missed, creating a black charred mark on the floor and a rising sense of panic. His heel ground it into dust and silver shreds and a closer shot burned it up, making it another black mess to worry about. Thundercracker had other issues to address.

_Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!_

He trained his arm guns to where the energy signal was at its strongest. "Come out or I'll blast you into space dust." He almost used a name.

Thank Primus the Cybertron Academy had taught him better than to do something so foolish. Soundwave stepped into the well-lit room and glanced at the charred remains on the floor. Thundercracker relaxed his posture and demanded to know what the _frag_ Soundwave was doing sneaking up on him in such a slipshod way? He was a better spy than that!

Soundwave continued to inspect the damage to the room without moving any closer. "Detection desired."

It might be a good idea to lead Megatron's trusted associate away from the scene of destruction. Thundercracker grabbed Soundwave's arm and pushed him back the way they'd come, wracking his processor for the best way to negotiate silence without having to give up anything of value.

"Why?"

The large tape player rotated his visored head in the direction of the untidy spots they'd just abandoned. "Gift presentation."

It sent a chill through his solenoids; the bad kind of shock, like the time he and Starscream were stuck in a haunted factory and Skywarp's pranks weren't actually done by Skywarp. "_Where did you get that tape?"_

"Source inconsequential."

This…was not good. Soundwave had ALL of them by the cockpit for something, and Thundercracker had been no exception. Luckily the secret of him and Skywarp had become public and gone past its expiration date. Unluckily, Soundwave had witnessed the last two exchanges. "What will it take to keep ya quiet?"

"Bribery unnecessary."

Thundercracker tried to stay calm. "You always want something. What is it?" He began to walk towards his chambers, assuming the worst. He had some Cybertonium left over from a gambling win, a lot of energon…maybe Soundwave wanted a power favor later, like help with a _coup d'etat_ or something.

"Nothing desired."

"You're lying. You always want something."

Soundwave stared forward, down the hallway. There was darkness ahead of them. No menacing red lights foretold of mischief. "Company appreciated."

"You always want something, _WHAT is it_?" Thundercracker stepped in front of him and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him close. "Lemme guess: you want _me_." How did he kiss that stupid thing? "I bet you'd like my sonic boom. You tape players are into that-"

"Advances unwanted." Soundwave pushed him away. "My tapes are gone, for once." He looked less threatening and more like someone who needed a hug, which was so NOT like a Decepticon it was as though Thundercracker were looking at an artist's rendering of Megatron and Starscream making out.

"So you're lonely…"

"Negative. Appreciating your company," he reiterated, carefully slipping his blue hand into the black one near him.

Thundercracker was stunned. He stood rooted to the spot as Soundwave began to walk, felt the tug of a mech no following, stopped, and looked back in askance.

"What do you _really_ want outta me?" Thundercracker demanded. "It's always something."

Soundwave yanked his own hand back and stomped off, leaving Thundercracker alone again…and tired. Sooo tired. He'd had a long day of being rejected by everyone and everything, and nothing could come to an end faster to him than this cycle of humiliation. He stumbled back to his own chambers and collapsed on his recharge plate and silently quashed the rising memory of the worst rejection he'd ever had, one that surpassed those he'd endured as of late. Exhaustion eventually dragged him offline.


	34. No Strings Attached

Part I: The Premise

_It seemed to Optimus that the blend of Prowl and Bumblebee was a dangerous concoction. Just look at how running around in the woods had increased the acrimony between them; they were at each other's throats the minute they got back to report on the Space Barnacle Incident. Optimus concluded that if these were any other 'bots their sparring would be less like a clash of personalities and more like foreplay, BUT they truly seemed to dislike each other._

"_Surely you don't blame all of NATURE for a few space barnacles." They were facing off and the larger Autobot had that patented Prowl Scowl trained on the smaller one._

"_You don't see my game player turning everyone into zombies, do you?!"_

"_Actually…" Prowl was so caught up he hadn't realized his hand was on Bumblebee's shoulder until Sari began yelling. He yanked it away, mortified. It was a good thing no one had noticed his gesture…or had they? Prime raised an optic arch at Prowl, who ignored it._

"_You still owe me a new media player," Bumblebee grunted._

Part II: The Promise

Bulkhead was taking Sari home. Optimus and Ratchet went out to stop another gang shooting…and thanks to a recent injury or two from Starscream, Bumblebee was assigned Prowl-sitting duty.

Actually, the only 'bot in a relaxed position was the sittee himself, not the sitter. The black ninja-bot sat under his favorite tree with his legs crossed and optics dim as he nursed his still-healing oil leak and contemplated nothing in particular. He looked so cute when he did that, but not the right kind of cute. Bumblebee tried not to snicker too loudly.

Prowl remained in a lotus position, hands pointing upward and middle fingers barely touching thumbs as they hovered over his knee joint. His head did not move at the sound. His optics, dark, did not flicker on when Bumblebee rolled into the room on his 'heelies'–not even when the 'borrowed' stereo blasted.

When it came to his surroundings and the nuances of human culture Sari's dad had the observation skills of a compost heap. He did once, however, tell Bumblebee the secret of human sex appeal: Justin Timberlake.

**I'm bringing sexy back **

**Them other ballers don't know how to act **

**I think it's special... what's behind your back **

**So turn around and I'll pick up the slack **

(**take it to the bridge)**

Sari sniffed that anything THAT old wouldn't work, but Isaac Sumdac smiled absently and mumbled that it worked once on someone _important_.

**Dirty Babe**

**You see these shackles? Baby I'm your slave**

**I'll let you whip me if I misbehave**

**It's just that no one makes me feel this way**

**(take it to the chorus)**

Bumblebee skated around in circles, waving his arms in time with the music. His strategy deviated from last time in that he would NOT directly attack Prowl. He had to be stealthy this time. Prowl could sense the slightest change in machinations and react accordingly to his advances. This time he'd just drive his friend crazy with verbal innuendo.

Prowl ignored all distractions around him, even when Bumblebee called out for him to come play.

**Come here girl (go head be gone with it)…**

**and get your sexy on**

He even skated on one foot, backwards, into a double-axle. Prowl continued to remain in his own world. He didn't twitch a servo as Bumblebee talked over the song, saying whatever popped into his processor without consequence.

**Yah ready? (yeah)**

"I…knew you'd…" He was going back in forth with minute variations in his posture and distance, making sure nothing changed incrementally or Prowl would notice. "…spend all your time doing boring things like just sitting there, instead of having fun."

Prowl did not move a servo. Bumblebee continued skating. He tried a figure eight.

"Why don't you get up and move once in a while?" He managed to tilt ALL the way forward and handspring without falling, although he wavered more than desired. "Have some fun…with_ me._"

**I'm bringing sexy back **

"I know you said…" he glided from Prowl's left to right. "That it was a one-time thing." Right to left. "Too bad _you_ said it. I didn't."

**Them other *(^&*ers don't know how to act**

**Girl let me make up for all the things you lack**

**Because you're burning up I got to get it fast**

Prowl was a better actor than previously assumed. There was no way he could resist Bumblebee's taunting. That last statement should have made his head perk up and it didn't, which meant that the smaller Autobot had to pick up the slack and needle Prowl some more.

**(Take it to the bridge)**

"**Ninja-bot**," he sang, pulling a less-than-tight spin before resuming momentum. He spun again, kicking up a leg and almost falling. How did figure skaters DO that? "**You know your fighting makes my relays hot."** Prowl's lipline tightened. Bumblebee kicked up an alternate leg behind him, and wobbled, hopelessly trying to look a little less clumsy. "**I'll let you chase me to a parking lot**-" The lip was disappearing. Just a few more seconds…**"-and have your way with me 'till we get caught."** Prowl was completely inert. Stillness…so a strike was coming.

**(take it to the chorus)**

At long last Bumblebee ran out of tricks and skated close to him, feinting a jump into the tree and ducking low to his right instead. Prowl fell for it for a bout a nanoclick, bouncing off of the branch that met his hands (wincing at the pain as it shot down his arm) and flipping upwards midair to realign himself and ricochet off of the tree trunk towards the yellow irritation transforming and rolling out of his room as fast as he could go.

"Whoo!" Bumblebee hooted, tires squealing from the last-minute 90 degree turn into Prime's quarters – which had enough broken windows for a decent escape. He revved his engine and aimed for a paneless exit – but someone had wrapped a rope around his bumper. He had to transform to break free from it and had the brilliant idea to yank it as hard as he could to get the one holding said rope to fly out the window instead. Prowl did, with a spectacular 'whoosh.'

Well, slag, Bumblebee hadn't counted on Prowl's momentum to take him along! He plummeted out the window and tried to fall faster in order to find a good place to land and claim his prize. Here he comes! The yellow mech opened his arms to embrace Prowl…and got a fragging HOLOGRAM.

What?

He came from ABOVE– how'd he done that? – and landed on Bumblebee instead.

"I knew you liked to be on top, but don't you think this is overdoing it?" Bumblebee demanded wryly. Prowl pushed HARD, bouncing off the mech to somersault and coolly land a few feet over from the smoldering compact crater in the cement that used to be a yellow car.

Ow.

"I'd appreciate it if you left me alone while I meditate," Prowl growled, rising from his crouching position to walk back inside, shaking his injured arm for good measure.

****

Well, this would not do.

Once he'd peeled himself off of the pavement and pealed back into the base Bumblebee raced inside to confront him but found no trace of the motorcycle. The smaller mech hid a grin. There was a new Justin Timberlake song playing.

**She shuts the room down**

**The way she walks and causes a fuss**

**The baddest in town**

**She's flawless like some uncut ice**

**I hope she's goin' home with me tonight**

Carefully, deliberately, Bumblebee eased underneath the giant tree and tried to settle in. The gray clouds that dominated the Michigan sky did not allow for any shadows while the tree's bare branches kept it from being an ideal hiding spot. Prowl was not _directly_ above him. That helped him relax better. He folded his legs and tried to shut off his optics…but he was too restless to truly concentrate, and he was sure Prowl wouldn't strike until he'd calmed down. That's how it had happened last time.

**Those flashing lights come from everywhere**

**The way they hit her I just stop and stare**

**She's got me love stoned**

**I think I'm love stoned**

**She's got me love stoned**

**I think that she knows, think that she knows, oh, oh**

**I think that she knows, think that she knows, oh, oh**

The song drifted into what sounded like an afterglow of Justin crooning, and still no Prowl. He had to come out soon. No mech functioning could resist Bumblebee.

**I think that she knows, think that she knows, oh, oh**

He was tired of waiting and allowed himself a peek. There, on all fours (favoring one arm), was a slinky, kinky little ninja-bot crawling his way. His knees were bent sharply at odd angles that made him look arachnidan, with a studious twist. Prowl's optics met Bumblebee's and the smallest self-deprecating smile emerged. Then he pounced.

Bumblebee managed to roll off to the side but was not agile enough to escape the predator pursuing him. Prowl's recoiling momentum nicked the tree back from the force and scraped Bumblebee's back against the gritty floor in a stinging slide but Prowl's tight little mouth…it was like drops of warm oil bath gently falling on his chin, paralyzing him with delight.

"I knew you couldn't-"

Prowl hushed him by pulling back. "This means nothing."

The song changed again.

**If I told you you were beautiful**

**Would you page me on the regular?**

"I know that!" Bumblebee cried, pulling him forward. Prowl's body resting on his was like going into one of those human car washes for the first time. Prowl stiffened as Bumblebee conquered his lips. "This is no strings attached."

**Because, I can see us holding hands**

**Walking on the beach our toes in the sand**

**I can see us in the country side**

**Sitting in the grass laying side by side**

Bumblebee had seen a lot of Autobots in his lifetime who were calm and imperturbable, but the mech above him was NOT. Prowl was a barely-contained supernova of electricity on the brink of eruption, judging by the way he had snarled every time Bumblebee provoked him. The proper break in the dam would be easily detected. All it took was a gentle rub around his body, with stops at important places. Prowl began to relax and reciprocate.

**You can be my baby**

**Gonna make you my lady**

**Girl you amaze me**

**Ain't gotta do nothin crazy**

**See all I want you to do is be my love**

"Aah!"

He didn't seem to want to linger too much over preamble. Prowl's modulated voice commanded Bumblebee set his stingers to 'low' and zap him at increasingly frequent intervals until the ninja was squirming in ecstasy while moaning in his intoxicating baritone. It made the yellow Autobot snicker. The faster the shocks, the tighter the grip on his shoulders from a quivering Prowl. (One arm did not squeeze as much.)

He shouldn't be so smug about it but it felt _good_ to do something so right to someone. It also felt good to have a helmet ground into his in rapturous desperation.

"Ah, Bumblebee," he whimpered. Prowl's air intakes hitched and he gave out a lower moan, followed by blinding blue light that overtook Bumblebee's processor and forced a mind-numbing climax out of him before he was ready.

The song changed again.

**Hey girl**

**Is he everything you wanted in a man?**

**You know I gave you the world **

**You had me in the palm of your hand.**

**So why your love went away**

**I just can't seem to understand.**

He didn't even collapse onto him to regroup. The moment was over and the coupling was uncoupled at the sound of the main entrance door opening. Prowl jumped up and hastened to look. "Prime's back," he announced before departing.

Bumblebee, still buzzing internally, clambered to a vertical position and followed behind.

**Don't want to think about it**

**Don't want to talk about it **

**I'm just so sick about it**

After Megatron's rising Optimus Prime paired up Prowl with Ratchet for city repair duty and allowed Bumblebee to assist Sari at the office instead without reprimand. That kept them both busy…but when Bumblebee DID have a spare moment, he had a tough time finding Prowl alone at the base for another round of fun. He was either intensely focused, working with one of the others or invisible, making himself absolutely unavailable to Bumblebee.

Almost as though he were avoiding someone.

**Tell me is this fair?**

Part 3: The Pratfall

"That's a job for Prowl," Optimus informed Sentinel, who continued to sneer at him even AFTER Ultra Magnus had put a damper on his sarcasm. Speak of the mech…their commander was glaring at the holdup. "He knows that sector the best." Ultra Magnus had a way of looking at people that made you sense what he was going to say before he said it, which was to bring the Autobot in for discussion. "Let me go get him," Optimus offered, sliding away to make his escape and feeling uneasy as he did it. There was something wrong about leaving Bulkhead alone with those two.

The tree room had three alien beings in it: loud music, Prowl's gentle laughter bubbling out frequently-at a high volume-and a very angry Bumblebee glaring at Prowl and Jazz with a hostile stance.

Jazz was by the tree, neatly folded in half like a spring-loaded cat but cackling like a hyena. "Just-just try it out," he puffed, in between laughs.

Prowl, still chuckling, leapt in the air, flipped, extended his arms out, caught the tree branch, and executed a perfect triple rotation before soaring backwards to his point of departure and landing in a crouch. Jazz broke into applause.

"Nice!" he commented, "Smart move to put in the extra spin. I thought you were gonna lose control, for a second there."

"Losing control is not an option." Prowl was quite pleased with himself.

Jazz was more pleased with his own formulated retort. "So you were in control the other four times you landed on your face?"

"…I was getting tired of landing on my rear end," Prowl replied, grimacing at the memory of it.

Optimus took that moment to ask Bumblebee what he was doing there. The normally confident mech was frozen in an angry pose with a gargoyle's snarl.

"I'm waiting to be noticed," he snorted. "It's been twenty minutes."

Prime wasn't going to wait that long, and said as much. Jazz was noting one of Prowl's stances and correcting it.

"See, your hips aren't rotating the right way," he explained, standing behind the darker mech. He placed his hands on the outermost edges of Prowl's pelvis and carefully swayed them to the music. Their faces were so close…and smiling…and they had that dreamy look humans had in movies. Prowl tilted his head back and Jazz got a little closer.

"Ah-hem!" Bumblebee hollered, unfreezing himself finally. "Optimus needs to talk to you!"

Jazz did not move completely, merely looking up and jerking his head in Prime and Bumblebee's direction, to awaken Prowl from his trance.

Optimus was slightly embarrassed, Prowl was mortified, Bumblebee was smoldering and Jazz smiled and asked what he could do for Optimus.

"I need to talk to Prowl about the Royal Oak area, especially the 696 exit on Woodward Avenue. There's a dispute at the Zoo." Neither ninja had strayed from their intimate proximity to each other, forcing Optimus to request the lesson be postponed for the moment.

"Yeah," Bumblebee griped sourly. "So do you mind getting your servos off _my mech_ so he can do his job?"

All three Autobots started at that, but did not say anything - to Prowl's credit, because he looked angrier than he had in a long time. Jazz let Prowl disengage himself from his grip before following behind him, offering to accompany Prowl in order to learn more about the area.

On his way back to the main room, Optimus looked back down the hall to see a forlorn Bumblebee peeking out at them, shoulders drooping.

Part 4: the Prudent

"His mech. His mech. _His mech_." Prowl hissed it to himself when he was sure no one could hear him. Rush hour traffic started at three-thirty on Fridays in the summer months as most of the lower Lower Peninsula dashed out of work to get to their family cabins in the area classified as Up North. Weekends on the myriad of lakes and vacation grounds were a sacred pastime for metro Detroiters, a tradition that had gone on for over a century and a half. It made leaving Wayne County impossible.

"WWJ says there's an accident on the Lodge freeway," Jazz announced. He'd been listening to the AM news station for traffic updates, leaving the burden of conversation to his teammate, who was still marinating in his wrath over what Bumblebee had DARED utter.

Prowl sighed and relaxed, releasing his hostility towards Bumblebee into the metaphysical air, so that he would not redirect it towards Jazz. "We are not on the part that is technically called the Lodge Freeway. We have left Detroit and are driving north, into the suburbs. In two exits we will change freeways."

"Oh."

"Or…you could get off at Eight Mile and take that over to Woodward," Bumblebee chimed in, coming over from the shoulder. He ignored the horn honking and gunfire behind him, neatly fitting into the space between the motorbike and car. "Prime's bringing up the rear."

"Why do _you_ need to come with us?" Prowl demanded darkly.

"We're going to Hazel Park. The Angry Archer's taking over the racetrack." Optimus Prime was a few cars behind, patiently poking his way through without using his siren or irritating those around him.

"He must not be a serious offence," Prowl observed, attempting polite conversation but seething anyway. Bumblebee was ignoring him and talking to Jazz.

"-we're not TECHNICALLY a couple, but we're real close. I'm irresistible."

The mustachioed hologram on the motorcycle hunched forward, knuckles gripping the handles tightly. He growled low enough to not be heard.

"I was thinking we should combine our names. Something cute, like Prowlbee or Bumowl or…" he was enjoying this far too much. He pretended not to hear Jazz's chuckling or see the mustache on Prowl's human bristling. "How about BumProwbeeble?"

"More like Improbable!" the hologram retorted, unable to remain reticent. "What makes you so confident-"

"Bumblebee!" Optimus had caught up to them, finally. "Oh, hi Prowl, Jazz. I didn't realize traffic was so bad."

"I'm seeing more bumper than a Vos nightclub!" Jazz joked, managing another car length towards the 696 interchange and unintentionally tapping Prowl's rear end as he said that. "Sorry."

"I'll bet!" Bumblebee changed to robot mode and began stormily weaving around cars, to Optimus' chagrin.

"Wait for me!" Prime called, obviously not happy with the situation.

"Come on, Big Bot!" Bumblebee snarled. "I'm not sitting around here anymore! It's boring!"

Once they had enough of a distance Prowl tried to set the record straight, but Jazz didn't seem to care. "Little bot's living in a happy place; let 'em." Cars could not grin, but somehow Jazz gave off that aura. "I was like that for a week before Sentinel set me straight."

"Sentinel?" Prowl managed a soft lilt, so as to not sound as inquisitive as he felt.

"Not a big deal," Jazz muttered. Jazz did not tell the rest of the story, since it was classified, but gave Prowl an idea that it had been a minor crush and he had moved on since then. He left out the story pieces involving a drunken confession on Sentinel's part – Elita-1 was dead, and would stay that way - and Sentinel's obsession with Optimus was a bit too close to tell if it were crazy jealous rage or homicidal lust…and Prowl didn't need any suggestions that would temper his attitude towards Bumblebee anyway.

A firetruck brigade screamed past them and Prowl took the cue to follow along, dragging Jazz with him, sirens blaring.

Part 5: The Prime

Sentinel Prime…was a pile of cogs unfit for refining oil, let alone being a member of the exclusive elite guard. His disgust with Optimus and crew could be measured in kilojoules. His blistering swipes at Optimus' incompetence, Bulkhead and Bumblebee's stupidity, Ratchet's curmudgeonly medicine, Prowl's-

"Do you ever say anything, or is your primary language binary code?" Sentinel sneered with incendiary arrogance. They were all in a line being dressed down for one of their more recent incidents that almost blew up the Elite guard's ship. Optimus was dealing with Ultra Magnus, but his crew had been left alone with Sentinel, who burned with a desire to incinerate all of them for being in his way. Prowl had borne his insults with stoic iciness but there were some lines that should never be crossed. "Should I say this instead? 01101100011011110111001101100101011100100000110100001010!"

Bumblebee heard himself shouting but was unaware of what he said, but it started a brawl that did not let up until Optimus came out and pulled 'bots out of the fray. He did not know if he should be amused or disregard Bumblebee and Sentinel turning the air smoky with their foul language and had no time to evaluate it before Ultra Magnus came out and ordered them all to go recharge.

"Optimus, if this is how your troop conducts itself under your authority then I will reassign Sentinel to straighten them out!"

"BUT HE STARTED IT!" Bumblebee screamed, pitching himself forward only to be held back by Bulkhead.

"Enough! Bumblebee, go recharge!" When would they stop humiliating him like this? Apparently not soon enough. Prowl gave Sentinel a measured glance and exited without saying anything. Sentinel glanced at Jazz, who shot him a dirty look.

"What?" he demanded.

Part 6: The Prying

There were too many things going on at once: Dinobots…Constructobots…Megatron…Starscream…Sumdac Properties and Sari…there were a multitude of issues to worry about, none of them particularly inviting.

Bumblebee and Prowl continued to argue. Optimus did not say much. He wouldn't, not until he'd caught Sentinel under a large branch that Bumblebee had sliced off to stop a 'battle exercise' between Prowl and Sentinel that for some reason had occurred in the middle of the night _in Prowl's chambers_ but no one would explain why it couldn't wait until morning…Sentinel wouldn't admit he'd tried to rough up someone behind the scenes and had lost, and Prowl wouldn't confess that Sentinel had tried to ambush him, and Bumblebee wouldn't tell anyone what he was doing lingering around Prowl's door in the middle of the night. All anyone would say was that they were just playing around. Sentinel stormed out, Prowl snarled at Bumblebee to leave him alone, Bumblebee obdurately refused to do so until Prowl leapt into the tree and climbed onto the roof and rolled away, and Bumblebee howled that some people just didn't know how to display gratitude and told Optimus to forget it.

Prime heard the wind rustling in the branches of the tree losing the last of its leaves and decided he had better things to worry about…which was why he was going to attend to this problem first.

"I know you're still there, come down."

Prowl's blue optics lit up a soft azure as his shadow skulked back onto the branches of the tree and he glided to the floor. "Do you expect a more thorough report?" he asked, perched like a squirrel about to leap out of danger.

Optimus sighed. "No. I know Sentinel and I know you. Why don't you tell me what's going on with Bumblebee instead?"

Prowl eased to an upright position and crossed his arms. "He overheard Jazz tell me that our namesakes were bondmates and could not accept it as a transitory comment."

Prime did not observe, letting his shoulders droop instead and his face lower more than earlier.

There were many ways to comment on this reaction, but nothing was said about it. Instead, Prowl shifted his position to come closer to Optimus to be his collaborator instead of part of a confrontation. "Bumblebee has a problem detaching what he wants from what _is_."

Fanzone had said "Cry me a river" whenever he didn't care about how he was inconveniencing the Autobots. Prime had that same tendency to sympathize. "Do you have to explain that to him?"

Prowl's optics increased in intensity, although his face turned slightly to the left and downward instead, lip tightening. "It is not that straightforward."

"Why not?"

The ninja inwardly cursed his leader. Prime had to leave it alone, if only Prowl could come up with an acceptable answer. "Jazz means nothing to me, and if I tell Bumblebee that, he will assume that is a green light to pursue me himself-"

"He's assuming that already," Optimus interrupted. Prowl looked up in surprise. He hadn't thought any outsiders had noticed. Prime looked VERY uncomfortable. Prowl decided to wait until the unease in the room died, and when it finally did – after twitching a few times – he heard his leader speak.

"Look…I'm not going to get in the middle of this, but whatever you're doing, you need to straighten it out with Bumblebee before something awkward happens."

He was correct, but Prowl wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledgement. Optimus didn't triumph when he was proven right, but Prowl had his dignity to think of. He had to save face, though.

"I will speak with him right now," he promised, making a graceful exit as quickly as possible.

He could not tell Prime everything. He couldn't tell him about Bumblebee, or about how close he had gotten to Lockdown. He couldn't tell him ANYTHING. Optimus was a lousy leader. That's why he was _theirs_. If Prowl hadn't been stuck with this rag-tag group of nobodies there would be a better confidante; unfortunately-for the time being-

From the hallway he could hear the soft rumble of someone yellow sawing logs as his engine hiccupped offline – he refused to let Ratchet fix it. The grumble rattled the air in an audible seesaw pattern, transfixing Prowl to the outside of his door.

Bumblebee…

He couldn't. That slip of a mech was so much of a repellant choice it took all of his inner strength to knock on the doorway, and after a third rapping it was obvious that he wouldn't respond tonight, and Prowl was fine with that.

"Prowl?"

Bumblebee was casting a sleepily suspicious optic down the hallway from the almost-emancipated mech who'd thought he'd made a clean escape. Heaving a sigh, Prowl turned to face the yawning yellow yahoo behind him.

"Did you knock?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Optimus would like me to discuss something with you."

"Can it wait 'til tomorrow?" he asked, another servo spasming into another yawn. Witnessing him do that was exhausting.

"Yes, it can." He didn't elaborate, and Bumblebee didn't ask. He drifted back into his room in a nanosecond.

****

He avoided him all day. All week, technically.

Prowl was perplexed, since Bumblebee had spent a goodly amount of time as of late chasing Prowl down, watching him from afar, checking up on him when he thought no one noticed. When there was no Bumblebee over his shoulder, it was both a relief and a concern. Of course he hadn't ASKED for such devotion. Frankly, being the recipient made him uncomfortable. There was a small part of him that nagged, though. Missed him, even.

"Where have you been?" Bulkhead demanded as Bumblebee casually rolled through the entrance and Sari leapt out of the driver's seat, running to get her skateboard before her father's car pulled up and took her.

"I've been busy," the bee replied, grabbing Bulkhead's giant paw and giving it a friendly shake. "Why? Didya miss me?" He made kissing noises to complement his statement. Bulkhead shied away like a kindergarten boy from cooties. "Aww, don't be shy! There's plenty of me to go 'round!"

Bulkhead snorted and returned to what he was doing. "Just because the pool's shallow doesn't mean it's okay to swim," he muttered. Bumblebee snorted. Sentinel used to say that to discourage any of them from becoming TOO close as a unit.

Prowl had watched them banter like this before and there was nothing special about it. Except that Bumblebee seemed to be watching him from the corner of his optics. Might as well get it over with, while he was here.

"Bumblebee, I'd like to speak with you," he began.

"Did Jazz call?" the smaller mech demanded, hostility still ringing in his tone as sarcasm didn't quite cover it.

Bulkhead glanced at Prowl and guessed that there might be somewhere else he needed to be. Once he'd edged his way out, Prowl decided to continue.

"Your question is a part of something larger that can no longer be ignored: there is no foreseeable route of action in the current intercourse between us; therefore, we cannot be anything besides teammates."

"Whaa?" He looked so cute when he screwed his face up like that. The right kind of cute. Prowl's servos squeezed a little.

"We have no future. We are going to be friends." They stood in the middle of the main room, a few meters apart, with no sound coming from any other place in the old factory, except for the rush of traffic above them.

After a long staring contest Bumblebee's shock turned to dismay. "I thought you liked me."

Prowl had expected shouting, anger, insults. Bumblebee must be working up to that. "At one point in time, perhaps. You were available, I had a need…but that time has passed and-"

"-you found my replacement."

"He's not your replacement." They were getting in each other's faces again, as though they were arguing over his media player.

"Right. I had to mean something to begin with, didn't I?"

Prowl had no response, only an icy glare. Bumblebee blazed on.

"You had a need, huh? You don't still have it? You don't need _me_?"

At this the black mech realized how close they were, and how close he was to losing his temper again, like he always seemed to. It was as though the smaller mech KNEW every button that shouldn't be pushed and ignored the warning signs. "I don't need anybody," he announced, taking a step back. He was followed by an earnest, hurting, furious face.

"That's your _problem!_ Prime keeps telling us we're a team and you're the only one who ignores that!"

It was as though the spell were broken. Prowl just had to look at him and they dissolved into giggles. If anyone were to lecture anybody else about who should be thinking as a team, it was not either of them.

After a few more moments of mirth, Bumblebee grew serious. "You may not need me…but there are times when I need _you_." He shrugged with half a smile. "Who else am I gonna turn to? Bulkhead?"

"That would be a start," he heard himself retort.

The half-smile sunk like a torpedoed ship. "You really don't like me?"

Sigh. "We have no future."

Return sigh. "So you keep telling me."

Prowl wanted to walk away, and walk fast. Someone was bound to come in at any moment. "It would have ended badly; this way it doesn't hurt you as much."

He kicked the air, not hitting anything but not hiding his frustration, either. "Don't you get that when you don't want to try, that hurts too?"

He hand not considered that…because it was stupid. This conversation was _over_. So were they. Prowl about-faced and marched out. "You promised me no strings attached, Bumblebee...'bye."

"Bye," he murmured back. What else could he say?

"'Bye."

Parentheses

It was a momentary lapse. Prowl swore that, up and down in his processor, he would never succumb to this temptation again. He had, though. It was so sweet. Four minutes. He had woken up from a light recharge and the only face he saw was Bumblebee's. When he found the smaller mech, playing one of those stupid games, all he had to do was look at the smaller mech and nod, not uttering a syllable, just sinking into the darkness where he was followed.

As the sun finally broke through the green canopy of new May tree leaves, Bumblebee lay in Prowl's arms, as light as his name and humming just as low as his motor purred in contentment. Prowl felt his spark flare up, heating his chestplate. For this brief beautiful moment, the yellow mech was all his; his to own, his to love, his to cast off if he wanted…but already Bumblebee's optics were lighting up, his face was twisting into a sweet blasé smirk, and his body was shifting and creaking as he rose up to go find Sari for another adventure, saying nothing of note other than how fast time had passed. Prowl watched him go and rearranged his legs into the lotus position, clearing his processor and trying to think of nothing and failing. He had to, though.

No strings attached _still_ meant no strings attached.


	35. Battle Without Honour or Humanity

Apologies to what you and I killed. I'll miss you.

[23:06] You're my Wonderwall: is there any part of Headmasters that is redeemable?  
[23:34] You're my Wonderwall: I thought you loved watching Ultra Magnus die  
[23:35] No Wonder None of Your Shit Ever Works.: he dies like a chump.  
[23:35] You're my Wonderwall: Because most of us will die with honor, right?  
[23:35] You're my Wonderwall: I know I will  
[23:37] No Wonder None of Your Shit Ever Works I plan on carving a bloody path through my enemies before collapsing once everyone is safe.  
[23:37] No Wonder None of Your Shit Ever Works.: Probably with some poignant, heart-moving words on my blood-caked lips.  
[23:37] You're my Wonderwall: that'll be a hell of a BotCon.

* * *

Wheeljack didn't want to die alone, on his back, looking like a minor piece in the pile of wreckage that used to be Autobot City's second line of defense.

* * *

_Almost all Autobots liked to call out over their shoulder to those around them to tell everyone that they 'died with honor,' but the exclamation was more of an acknowledgement of the company around them…or it was a reassurance that the others DID care and that the overwhelming loneliness every Autobot felt wouldn't take over when they needed their courage the most. Most of them demurred going out like that, preferring to keep it as a cavalier superstitious quote-but one they made, all the same. Kup had told stories that glossed over his own barely-concealed fear of malfunction, making the subjects sound like tragic heroes that had only needed a minor moment of comfort. They were tales that were more reassurances that they were not androids but more complex mechanisms, ones that honored their cohorts by preserving the tribute each Autobot deserved. _

_How had that phrase come about, anyway?_

"_Drill Bit was blind, remember," Kup intoned after minor skirmish. Arcee and Daniel had wondered aloud about Autobot death, wondering why it was so taboo, to the point that the word 'death' was never uttered. 'Destruction' and 'demise' were fine, why not death? Springer mentioned how it was all right to say 'Tell them I died with honor,' and that set off the storyteller behind them._

"_We were stuck in a corner after a supply raid turned nasty, and he was the only one standing-besides me and Wheeljack-and he took out half a squadron just by HEARING and INFRARED-"_

_

* * *

  
_

Every piece of glass on Wheeljack was shattered. He didn't even recognize the pieces of him that fell as he staggered towards the entrance to Fortress Maximus. Starscream was cackling overhead, piercing what was left of the Lancia's back. The pain in his injuries had puddle together like the fluids dripping from him and made it impossible to think of anything coherent. Oddly, the irksome din of Decepticon laughter had stopped with the ceasing of firepower impact, which was confusing, too. Shouldn't there be more noise? What if a bomb were about to go off?

* * *

"_-UHHHH," Arcee and Daniel groaned, putting their heads in their hands. _

"_I'm sorry I asked," Daniel muttered._

_Kup ignored them completely, not letting reality cut down a tall tale. "Once he was done you couldn't tell where one mech's body started and another stopped. It was just a pile of scrap!"_

_He had Arcee's attention._

_

* * *

  
_

There was too much to process. One arm in front of the other. One leg in front of the other. Wheeljack was at a slow crawl and his speed was diminishing as nothing was obeying his commands. He had to remain focused, though. Keep going…

But it hurt too much.

* * *

"_There I was, with more androids on the way and I couldn't see six feet in front of me, and Wheeljack was in the back trying to get a decent force field workin', when I heard a scary sound like broken gears and saw Drill Bit tryin' to stand up…but most of him was blasted away. See, no matter what tried to keep him down, Drill Bit always got back up, 'cause he was hard-wired like that. He drove Prime up the wall sometimes!"_

_No one said anything. They weren't captivated so much as they were curious as to what would happen to Drill Bit._

_

* * *

  
_

He couldn't move any more. He wanted to, but nothing was going anywhere, and his processor was mired in a flood of retrievals instead of keeping with the momentum of movement. He was besieged with memories of things, such as Bumblebee and his raid the day they left for earth; the Immobilizer; Drill Bit screaming in panic and Kup holding what was left of his shoulders and speaking in that Gruff Voice he used when he wanted your attention but the matter wasn't as serious as it should be; Ratchet the first time they had finally been alone together, drunk and rambling about commitment and love and how bad and how long he'd been wanting to touch the engineer. But they barely knew each other.

"Do you love me?" Wheeljack asked, pausing mid-embrace. Ratchet had been flummoxed. "Nooooo," he replied, words slurred. "That would be creepy." His hands were so tight around Wheeljack's waist. "I'm very fond of you."

Oh Primus…Ratchet. Wheeljack had felt the spark disintegrate earlier and the very thought of it made the rest of him crumble. Ratchet. He wasn't sorry about what he'd done to the medic then, and he wasn't sorry now. The ground had been baked by the crossfire and it felt too cold to someone whose systems were overheating. He was about to have a 'thermal event.' Hehe. How many of those had he experienced before? After Chip told him that 'fire' was taboo in the engineering world, 'thermal event' became his favorite euphemism.

It repeated over and over again in a continuous loop: thermal event thermal event thermal event-

* * *

"_Parts of him were on FIRE!" Kup's arms swung wildly and Daniel jumped backwards. "We had to put him out! He looked at me and said 'Kup…tell 'em I died with honor.' Nobody said 'died' before that, it was bad luck, but when he said it the curse was off of it, 'cause Drill Bit had the worst luck of anybody and all that bad luck had to break something." The older mech paused and let that sink in. "I looked him dead in the optic and said 'I will.' Then his optics went dark." He pointed to the clouds that skirted the atmosphere. "From then on, we've said it only on the battlefield, to summon his spark to break all the bad luck that's going on…and to remember him."_

_Daniel stared at Kup's skyward-angled hands as though to watch Drill Bit's spark ascend to the heavens. "That's cool!"_

_Arcee was not as gullible. "Last time you told Grimlock that Sentinel Prime launched a battle and said that today they'd all die with honor," she refuted._

_Kup laughed. "Take your pick on what back-story you want and don't worry about the details, my girl." He walked out, patting Arcee on the chestplate as he went. "Don't worry about it."_

_

* * *

  
_

Arcee found him and dragged him inside, trying not to think about whether or not he still existed. There had to be some hope, there just had to, or else this was the apocalypse that had been feared in the back of their databases all this time.

"Please Wheeljack, be alive! We need some kind of lucky break!" She knelt down and checked for signs of function and saw the light in his optics fading. There would be no relief from today's bad news. Still, tradition compelled her.

"You died with honor, Wheeljack," she announced loudly. "I'll tell them all."

There was no response.


	36. Oil and Water

Optimus Prime had had enough.

Perceptor. Shockwave. Bumblebee's sleepovers that barely soothed the inner turmoil. His 'surveillance' trips to the middle of nowhere, where he hid in the shadows of dark jungles or salt-encrusted caves or the desert where the wind carried razorblades of sand into your joints as he would melt into the penumbra of the rocky cliffs and then later watch Thundercracker blast his way out...he was done. Finished.

* * *

Grimlock was sick of it.

He was not a part of the cogs and sprockets that intricately tied together the gossip mill in the Autobot compound, but he was one of the few Autobots who actually listened to Bluestreak after his first five minutes of monologue, and when coupled with the high-traffic intersection of corridors that met at the Dinobot Rumpus Room...how could he NOT hear all that was spoken?

Perceptor.

It was like a shot from Megatron to his fuel tank.

Perceptor.

Everything Grimlock wasn't...everything he could never be...was Perceptor. Grimlock couldn't be smart. He couldn't create things! Perceptor had made the Protectobots! Perceptor was funny! Perceptor had a shiny red color, instead of gunmetal gray, that so many Autobots had described with the preamble of "no offense, Grimlock, but-"

He'd been foolish enough to ask. Sunstreaker suggested a deep blue, or bright green, while Tracks suggested he go more natural and paint himself in the patterns scientists thought dinosaur skin had. Wheeljack and Ratchet didn't even lift their heads up from what they were doing to tell him that he was fine, he looked scary in gray, to let it go. Now he had a new problem.

Maybe an upgrade....

Jazz suggested puzzles. Soduku was useful, maybe. Mozart was supposed to help your processor.

"You don't need a fraggin' upgrade!" Ratchet snarled, pulling at a stubborn transistor that continued to spark out of Beachcomber's abdomen. "You're fine the way Wheeljack built you!"

But he wasn't. He wasn't good enough. He was strong and brave and a great warrior but that meant nothing to the one being he wanted it to matter the most. What did that stupid scientist have that HE didn't? Grimlock caught himself analyzing Perceptor's demonstration to the others about a new chemical for their windshields that would deflect most null ray shots. Perceptor did not move with grace, but with enthusiasm. Like him, Grimlock. He spoke quickly and astutely. Like him, Grimlock. The other Autobots looked annoyed at his presence, although Prime's optics glowed with a special appreciation. Like for him, Grimlock. Perceptor smiled.

Oh...

* * *

Optimus Prime had not detected any shifts in the attitudes of his Autobots.

Morale at the base was thinner than aspen leaves. It fluttered and shook until ripped and torn by whatever element ravaged it. Prime had to gauge what happened at the base, but was too far removed from the day-to-day aspects to do much, other than listen to Jazz and Ironhide report the nuances to him.

"The Protectobots are mad that ya sent 'em to China," Ironhide announced. "And somebody - not namin' names-" he jerked his head to the mech seated next to him "-asked 'em to bring back bootlegged Lord o' the Rings DVDs."

"Sideswipe did that," Jazz replied smoothly. His posture said 'relaxed' but his vocal inflection was just a little too high, suggesting that he was amused to be accused, and that he WAS the culprit.

"If I see one DVD without a receipt in this stronghold I'm putting a lock on Teletraan-1," Prime countered. The smooth smile never faltered. "And telling Red Alert to watch you closer."

"He does that already," Jazz grumbled. The smooth smile had gone rocky.

Jazz had nothing new to report. Smokescreen wasn't doing his job anymore, now that he'd chased away all of his clients. He was spending too much time hovering over Prowl and it was starting to get annoying.

Prime had far too many editorial comments to make about that, and remained professionally reticent to keep Jazz from deviating any futher from the truth. It was difficult to interpret the news put before him. How did humans do it?

"Thank you both," he said, rising to signal the end of the meeting.

As they were leaving, Wheeljack was hovering in the doorway, mid-pace. He came in without invitation, although he did pause to note that the office door needed oiling again. Prime's distress signal was beeping - more U.S./Iraqi disputes - therefore Wheeljack needed to talk while Prime dispatched Omega Supreme.

"Grimlock wants lips."

Of all the-"What?" He had to refocus. "Just a moment. Takrit, Omega! The whole city's under seige."

"Mission accepted."

Optimus looked at Wheeljack and had no idea how to phrase his follow-up question. "Did you tell him that we can't do that?"

Less than five earth years ago, Prime had been able to remove his mask. Megatron took away that particular option. Prime hated him even more for that.

They had all been taught, at one point in time, that lips were pointless and were not truly needed. Someone with lips had told them that. Although Optimus and Wheeljack didn't speak of it aloud, both of them were more than slightly dismayed to see Ratchet put a faceplate on Grimlock. He considered it a tribute to his bondmate. Wheeljack swallowed his mixed emotions. They were supposed to be proud of their look and be above petty decorations, but this one was difficult, and they felt guilty for wanting lips when they didn't 'need' them and had to pretend as much. How could they tell Grimlock the same heap of slag that they themselves had been fed? Something they had trouble reconciling in their own lives?

Wheeljack equated it to human baldness. Like hair, lips were not replaceable.

"Prime, I told him I had to talk to you about it first. Sorry." He'd been a chickenbot .

"I will discuss it with him, then." Why not? It wasn't like he was doing anything else today, like keep the humans from killing each other and Megatron from killing all of them.

* * *

Grimlock dreaded seeing him.

This was not fear. Grimlock feared nothing. It was just an unpleasant task that he did not anticipate with much relish. But not fear.

Optimus had been a part of his daily routine forever, it seemed. They talked about leader stuff at least once a day. Faught together. Being with Prime, albeit for a few moments a day, made all the difference in moods, to the point where it seemed a little disturbing. Grimlock resented his independence being whittled away the more his affection grew, but it was wonderful to have a common ground.

These meetings had started after Grimlock had confessed his feelings and had been gently guided elsewhere. He took Prime's words as a golden rule and threw himself into doing what he thought all good leaders were supposed to do - take care of your troops, leave your emotions alone, keep your fighting top-notch. But then PERCEPTOR happened, and all of Prime's wise words went from cherished gold to clay to dust that blew away and left emptiness instead. Just LOOKING at Prime reminded him of all of this. It hurt so much. And he missed his time with Optimus, time that faded until hours of consultation devolved into mere nods in the hallway. Grimlock had assumed Prime was busy being a good leader. Apparently not.

He walked into the office to see Prime standing up, as usual. He invited Grimlock to sit, which was refused. Grimlock wanted to keep this a formal as possible.

"Grimlock, I wanted to talk to you about your request for lips," he began.

Wheeljack was a turbo-fox for telling on him. Grimlock should have known! "Me Grimlock not care about that anymore," he announced, just to save himself.

Optimus' brow furrowed slightly. "Did you change your mind?" he asked.

The larger warrior shrugged. "It happen. Me Grimlock change mind all the time." He stared at Prime, as hard as he could. "You Optimus change mind, too."

Prime seemed confused. What did that have to do with lips? "I do, when the situation is necessary," he countered.

His declaration made the Dinobot's visor get brighter. "What sit-u-ation you need to change mind a lot?"

This conversation was making no sense, and the alarm was going off again. The Decepticons were attacking oil tankers. "Grimlock, I change my mind when I need to. I can if I so desire, I am the leader. Round up the other Dinobots, we need them. Ratchet! Jazz! Bumblebee! Prowl! Ironhide!"

* * *

Perceptor was stymied. Grimlock had spent the whole day following him around frankly, it was more than slightly disquieting. What was going on?

"He has a crush on you?" Grapple joked.

Ratchet cracked up. "Perceptor wrote a paper on it saying NO, remember?"

Grimlock's head peaked out around the doorframe of the lab six times before Wheeljack finally told Perceptor to SAY something to him, already.

They beckoned him in with an energon goody and smiles and had him sit down. "Grimlock, while I am flattered at the attention-" Perceptor began, trying to sound pleasant while lying. All he did was bring his audience to a boiling rage.

"You Perceptor wrong about me Grimlock! Me Grimlock no like you that way!" The Dinobot was extremely offended, and stomped off. Ratchet laughed harder.

"If he was spying on you, he did a lousy job," he announced.

Perceptor cared not. At least THAT unpleasant excercise was over.

* * *

Optimus couldn't sleep again. He almost called Bumblebee twice before forcing himself to stay away from the paging device. He was going to quit that habit, and his recharging pattern would just have to get used to it.

CRASH.

That sounded like what used to be his office door. Should he check, or wait for Red Alert to say something? He might as well check.

There wasn't much left of the wall. Smoke had begun to clear up by the time Grimlock emerged from behind the rubble. Prime readied his blaster. Their optics and visor met.

"You Optimus Prime no get mad at Red Alert. Me Grimlock tie him up."

"That is not what concerns me," Prime countered. Grimlock fidgeted. "Grimlock, what were you doing in my office?"

Other Autobots were coming out of their chambers: Jazz and Prowl, Ironhide, Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Silverbolt were coming closer. Grimlock did not want all of them to hear his reasons, but he couldn't get away with a lame excuse, and a temper tantrum would only get him into more trouble. He held up a crumpled piece of paper.

"Me Grimlock want back drawing me Grimlock made of you Optimus Prime," he explained.

This was the straw that broke Optimus' processor. Grimlock's behavior had been too bizarre to NOT take action. "Ironhide, Ratchet. Put Grimlock in the lab and give him a FULL CPU scan," he ordered, addressing Wheeljack for the last sentence. "Jazz, where were you on this? All of your reports are about Smokescreen, who's posed NO threat, and were nothing about Grimlock, who IS."

Jazz managed to look bewildered, even as Prowl's head turned slowly towards his bondmate to glare. "Smokescreen?" he snarled. Jazz's shoulder's shrugged like they always did, and drooped. Prime ignored it. He announced that he would have a meeting tomorrow to discuss this, but for the moment, he had a mess to clean up and where was Grapple?

"Right here, Prime." He was already in the thick of it, planning the replacement wall. He could even move the current standing wall back a few meters, if Prime were interested.

"Negative. Thank you, though." Prime glanced at the wall where his shelf of personal affects remained intact. Nothing was missing, except for the picture. What was _wrong _with Grimlock lately?

* * *

It took intense humiliation and a visit to Smokescreen's office but after the clean CPU scan he was given a punishment and pretty much left alone again. Optimus no longer gave him any acknowledgment anywhere, unless he acted up. If Grimlock wanted to, he'd act up, but he was too tired. He'd learned nothing from spying on Perceptor and trying to infiltrate his world. He'd been hurting from finding out he wasn't good enough for Prime. This was the worst February ever. Now Spike and Carly were decorating the whole compound with red hearts and talking about Valentine's Day. Grimlock decided to spend it in the gymnasium instead. If anyone came near him, he'd pound their oil out.

But first....

When Ironhide had searched him, it had been such a simple thing to brush it off as 'A rock me Grimlock found.' Wheeljack hadn't even noticed it, so absorbed in his work he was. Now the small brown heart-shaped piece of granite rested on Grimlock's own shelf, and it gave him a small spurt of warmth to feel like he owned it again. His heart was his to keep, not give to someone who didn't want it.  
If he had lips he would have smiled.


	37. I Want to Hold Your Hand

Stealth wasn't that difficult, at least when done correctly. Everyone assumed Wheelie (_en tandem _with Daniel) ALWAYS ran around Cybertron using the same obstreperous pace as a herd of wild ponies, but no mech would survive a planet of Quintessons and Sharkticons if their method of travel gave Carly a headache. He could be furtive when necessary. Wheelie inched his way around the TV room, taking advantage of the darker corners that would mute his bright orange body better and keep him out of the detection level of most Autobot sensors. His prey was not elusive as much as it was never around unless sought; Wheelie spent a lot of time seeking him, and even more attempting interaction and not FAILING as much as not getting anything other than a lukewarm response. Not today.

Warpath knew he was there. Wheelie may have been something inscrutable in the swamps of some far-off hellhole, but on Cybertron he was not that talented. It helped that Warpath knew he was coming. He had grown to expect it.

"BAM! Hey there little guy!" he greeted.

Wheelie paused. Admit defeat or wait to see if Warpath would dismiss his suspicions?

"I -ZOOM! heard you open the door and-POW! saw you duck behind the energon dispenser."

Well....piston crud. He came into the light with a softly sullen expression. "I tried to creep about, but Warpath found me out."

'Creep' was the right word. What was with this kid? "Can I -BOOM! help you with something?"

Here the small orange car hesitated. "Don't think me indiscreet, but I think you're really neat." He took a step closer and smiled as he did it, fingers lifting up to the darker red Autobot in a gesture that befuddled the tank.

"That's nice." He was confused. What did he mean 'neat'?

Wheelie's smile faded. Didn't he know the universal hand gesture for "I want to date you?" Either he didn't or he was ignoring him. It couldn't be the latter - Warpath was far too polite for that. (It should be noted that one mech's 'polite' is another mech's 'affection' is another mech's 'distant but not completely nasty.')

"Warpath, I think you're grand. I like you...understand?"

He did. But nobody liked him, and Warpath thought he was being made fun of. "Go play with Daniel - CLUNK! I'm busy." He sat down at the table and clicked on the television, where they were getting a transmission of "Friends." Ross was complaining about his love life and Chandler was being sarcastic.

Wheelie stared. That was the rudest Warpath had ever been to him. It had to be a fluke.

Warpath stared at the television as hard as he could. He would not look at Wheelie, he would not see where he was, where he was going, what he was doing, nor would he see who had carefully placed himself on the chair alongside of his.

So it wasn't a joke. It was worse...the truth. "WHAP! Listen, kid. I'm bad news. I like ME, not anybody else." Ask any Autobot. "I won't be nice and I won't -BANG! make you happy."

Wheelie stretched out his arm and clasped his fingers around Warpath's, circuits warm with his own audacity. "I don't ask for much. Just a smile, a wink...a touch."

Stupid kid. He wasn't listening...and Warpath didn't feel like repeating himself. In fact, now that his palm and fingers felt the gentle pressure of someone else's, he didn't feel like making any kind of rebuff. He felt satisfied. Nobody ever really paid attention to him, except for Wheelie, and this had been a secret source of miniscule pleasure for him, like finding a long-lost blaster or getting a Christmas present from Spike. Why fight it? Wheelie was happy; he didn't ask for anything too exerting. This could work.

"If that's-CRACK! all you want," he said, voice not as boisterous as usual.

The smaller mech nodded. "_I_ don't lie." He squeezed the hand in his grasp a little tighter.

Warpath returned his focus to Rachel and Monica yelling at Phoebe and smiled to himself.


	38. Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me

"It's not that I object to it-or even fear it, as you claim-it just seems impractical," Prowl declared, taking a step away from the recharge plate. Jazz took that as his opportunity to lean forward.

"Impractical, how? The bumper or the doorwings?" Prowl did not think that it was feasible to 'cuddle,' something Spike had complained about regarding Carly's demanding there be more than provided. Naturally, Jazz was curious and after hearing a description, wanted to try it out. He anticipated Prowl's hesitation and was prepared for rationale to counterpoint each objection his mate would have.

"Impractical regarding how quickly you get bored lying around doing nothing," Prowl retorted.

"Oh." Jazz had forgotten that. He had a solution in a flash. "Remember that TV show you want me to watch but I just can't get into? 'Jeopardy!'? What if we watch that while we're cuddling?"

Prowl considered this. "It's on in half an hour. We could watch 'Wheel of Fortune,' too."

Jazz suppressed a shudder. He hated how Prowl knew the answer before even the first letters were placed on the board. It ruined the fun of it. He was just as bad with 'Jeopardy!' He smiled instead. "Sure." His black hand patted the spot next to him on the plate. "Now...commere."

Prowl climbed on, grabbed the remote, and wrapped his arms around his mate, resting his head on Jazz in a way that did not cause his chevron to scrape against anything. "This cuddling is not bad," he commented.

The television sprang to life and Pat Sajak smiled with Jazz. "I could get used to it," he replied.


	39. I Remember You

Robots don't dream.

Perceptor had once told Spike and Carly, in that droning voice of his, that they did not have a 'Replay' function in their databases; Autobots offline were OFFLINE, and empirical evidence supported his ascertains.

Huffer remained characteristically quiet about the subject, mumbling something under his breath about how Perceptor's certainty would be his downfall. He knew better, though.

Every night, no matter what happened, when he was offline, he saw Cybertron. He saw his home, his workshop/office, the sites he had lead his team to build some of Cybertron's greatest edifices, all of his tools in the right places, the bar where he got a shot of oil every seventh cycle...Grasshopper.

Technically, the small green unit was the protégé of his co-owner's creation Springer, a _botanist_...but he needed the extra capital and they needed more hands, so Huffer had put him on the team as a contract employee. Grasshopper was unfocused and clumsy but unlike most of Huffer's team, his work ethic was better than even the grizzled vets, spending entire cycles at work. Half of the team liked him in spite of his shortcomings, the other half remained professionally courteous in _front _of their boss. Grasshopper hadn't told him about the harassment until much later.

In these offline visions Grasshopper was soldering something in his usual sloppy way, trying to ignore the helpful suggestions from the people who liked him and the sneering sarcasm of those who did not, when Huffer would come up to him to correct him and in a flash of light the small green mech was in his arms, pressing his body hard enough to startle Huffer online again.

Other dreams bypassed the attack, going right into the actual act. Hands...legs....Grasshopper's hinged jaw neatly nibbling on Huffer's neck...but that never happened.

It never would.

His entire crew had been at work the day of the city's bombing. Only two had escaped-Huffer and Wheeljack. The rest had scattered, endings unknown. There were rumors about Caterpillar and Inflater and others, but for Grasshopper...nothing. The only place he lived was in Huffer's imagination, apparently.

"Autobots do not dream," Perceptor explained to Daniel a decade or so later. Huffer glanced up at Cybertron and grumbled something undetected.


	40. Liar It Takes One to Know One

PART 1

The only word that came to mind was amazing.

How unfair was it to see Cliffjumper trailing around after BUMBLEBEE of all undeserving mechs, when there were others far more worthy? More beautiful. MUCH more beautiful. Much more processor-bogglingly stop-traffic beautiful.

Sideswipe was off, attempting to gain access to Hound's secret stash of National Geographics. Sunstreaker had heard that Cliffjumper had been forced into therapy by the Fool's Gold Bug (sometimes his own wit surprised him). Whenever Cliffjumper left, Sunstreaker made sure that he was nearby, posing attractively. Not that Cliffjumper ever noticed.

These mini-bots were simple machines, after all. If Sunstreaker truly wanted the little one, he'd have to take him by force, but there were too many prying optics around here. Nobody went around Smokescreen's office, he'd have his way there.

One session Cliffjumper had been forced to go back and tell Smokescreen (who had a decent set a doorwings) that there would be no more therapy. As the red mini-bot stomped by, grumbling about something, Sunstreaker reached out and pulled him aside.

"Quit ignoring me!" he hissed, golden hands going right for those tiny little shoulders. SO cute. Cliffjumper swayed them with a seductive air that was so obvious it had taunted the Lamborghini forever, and to finally get to touch them was pure bliss.

Cliffjumper pulled back. "What the frag are you doing?" He was ignored, nuzzled and getting little kisses on his helmet from the last mech on the planet he expected to do that. Well.....second. A very ugly idea entered his processor as it occurred to him that twins sometimes think alike, whether they realize it or not, and that nobody knew about Sideswipe...and that Bumblebee's time was about up. This was going to be, for lack of a better word, amazing.

"Sunny, I wasn't ignoring you," Cliffjumper purred, grabbing that skidplate everyone talked about. "I was just playing hard to get."

* * *

PART 2

Most Autobots talk about it being like a burn to the circuits, while Spike talked about it being like a punch in the stomach. Mirage wasn't sure which one was more a shock to the system and was not really in a mood to analyze it.

So this is what it had come down to: e-mail. He shouldn't have looked in Sunstreaker's hotmail account, it wasn't right-Primus, he couldn't even call it an accident because the minute he realized it wasn't his he should have signed out-but he went ahead and started reading the numerous messages from simply_red86 in Sunstreaker's inbox. He had HUNDREDS of them, all with subject lines like "Last Night" and "Miss U" and "VavavaVroom!"

It was the latest one that got him.

08/23/2008 10:35 AM

to: sunkingAB at

from: simply_ red86 at

Subject RE: Hi cutie

I think I better just do it now, we just had  
a meeting and the troup

has to go tomorrow, including my friend on my team :(  
I feel like I am going to purge my tank!

I don't know how you can deal with this all the time!!

08/22/2008 09:22 AM

To:simply_ red86 at

from: sunkingAB at

Subject RE: Hi cutie

Negotiation's a good idea. I heard you're doing a  
sweep on Thursday. Good luck.

The mission was a total wash. You're lucky you  
missed it.

Prowl was a trailer hitch to everyone else BUT me,  
the sun made my new wax job peel and

Mirage was bugging everybody

He's dropping hints that if I dump him he'll

be ok. Very interesting. The oil, you say? ;)

Offline most of Sunday.

Date: Mon, 21 Aug 2000 08:59:55 -0400

to:sunkingAB at

from: simply_ red86 at

Subject: Hi cutie

How'd it go?? This last weekend was so nice,  
I loved the hot

weather!!

Since Bumblebee got a new CD player he gave  
me his old one so that is cool. I

got a cool system with a radio that lets you  
have set buttons that can be pressed from the wheel.

I got a call about the old radio, they offered $150,  
I said I would think

about it. i really didn't want to sell it for under  
$200 but they only saw 4 pictures and maybe I can keep some since I know my  
list wasn't complete.

I may ask if they will go to $175.

Can't wait to pound the oil out of ya.

_Talk to your Yahoo! Friends via Windows Live Messenger. Find Out How._

If only his wheels wouldn't stop _shaking_. He read them over and over again, most of them barely hinting at anything, but it was there all the same, and the horrible crunching feeling of broken glass inside of his pistons wouldn't go away; growing exponentially the more he read, until finally he had to log out and turn off the computer or he'd go MAD.

Sunstreaker came in the way he usually did, with the boldness of a ray of light hitting you squarely on the optics when you least expected it. He and Sideswipe usually made enough noise to let you know they were coming, but when alone, they were like guerilla fighters. Mirage jumped.

"What?" he barked, taking large strides to get to his closet. He didn't wait for a reply, muttering about the sun peeling his coat of wax off and how it would take forever to fix and where the FRAG was the wax jar and WHAT was MIrage staring at?

"Nothing, sweetie," the spy replied, the sinking feeling getting worse. "I was online talking to, um, Cliffjumper."

He smirked. "What did that stupid fragger want?" One lone finger dipped into the wax as he applied a small amount to his arm, eying the results critically.

Mirage decided to try something. "He thinks you're hot."

The smirk never wavered. "Tell him he needs to go play in traffic." Sunstreaker galloped past again, rubbing his waxy hand on Mirage's shoulder. "Turn the computer back on, will ya? I'm expecting an ebay bid to be snipered and I don't need the extra time to boot it back up." He paused at the large mirror, approved his appearance, and slammed the door behind him.

"What's up with Mirage lately?" Sideswipe snorted.

Sunstreaker glanced away from the reflective surface that captivated his interest-briefly. "I didn't see anything different."

"He's acting weird. Like his favorite car wash went out of business or something."

"Eh. He does that. He's moody." The golden warrior shrugged and returned to primping. "I should get rid of him."

Sideswipe heard this declaration every other hour and was tired of it. "Then dump him already!"

But Sunstreaker couldn't. Losing his beard would make things MORE complicated, not less. Mirage and Cliffjumper were friendly acquaintances who interacted often enough that it was suitable for Sunstreaker the 'mini-bot hater botfriend' to be pseudo-reluctantly dragged along for their excursions, but there was NO excuse for Clffjumper to be around the Lamborghini any other time. Clandestine meetings were not enough; these third-party connections were all he and Sunstreaker had, really. There had been enough gossip over Cliffjumper and Bumblebee's recent break-up...

"Where is he?"

Sideswipe shrugged. "He ain't my problem. I've got a meeting with Prowl." That was code for "Don't follow me." Sunstreaker wished him luck, watched him leave, and sat down in front of their computer. No message from Cliffjumper, which meant he was busy. Frag. Sunstreaker paged Mirage but for some reason the race car wasn't answering. Double frag. He flounced out, angry at the world, when a silent maroon and blue bulk caught his peripheral optic sensors.  
Smokescreen....

"Hey," he called softly, hands reaching for the cloud of melancholy that most people ignored. Smokey had offered once, and Sunstreaker's experience had been that old offers seldom expire, in his case. "Get over here." Those were NICE doorwings. They needed to be played with, and Sunstreaker had an hour or two to kill.

* * *

Part 3

Cliffjumper felt stupid asking, since it seemed so soap-opera cliche to do it, but he did anyway. "Anybody see you?"

Sideswipe slipped onto the plate without making a sound. "A couple of 'bots, but they ignored me. We're good."

His energy field was already swelling. Cliffjumper leaned back to bask in it. "Yeah, you are."

* * *

Cliffjumper's cynical side refused to accept that Sideswipe loved to cuddle, even when they had finished the act and he'd even say it as a cute question, as though he were making a clever joke. "Cuddle?" he'd ask, voice elevating on the second syllable. The mini-bot would shake his head, disbelieving that this would be what was required of him, and be pulled in anyway.

Trial and error led them to conclude a position in which Cliffjumper's helmet did little to no damage. Once settled, Cliffjumper could bask in the warm glow of an overheated engine purring in his audio sensors. Sideswipe held him close, fingers tracing invisible circles on his back until it annoyed him and he shook Sideswipe off.

This session was quiet until Sideswipe decisded to ask Cliffjumper the Stupidest Question Ever. "Am I the best?"

No, not that one. "Yeah," Cliffjumper replied vaguely, snuggling his helmet in deeper to validate it.

"Better than-"

"YES," he snarled, not wanting to hear where this is going.

"Oh." Sideswipe was silent for a moment. He began to rub Cliffjumper's shoulder absent-mindedly, to the point of irritation. "Sorry." He squeezed him a little tighter. "You're just so _cute_."

Cliffjumper didn't respond, preferring to enjoy this moment of tranquil affection. Sideswipe was not what HE'D call "cute." Why did the bigger bots have such a problem with mini-bots being tough?

It was quiet enough that one of them must have fallen offline, but that was not the case. "How many have you had?" Sideswipe asked, startling his lethargic partner.

Why did they ALL want to know that? It didn't change anything. "Sideswipe, I used to have two guys, one seeing me behind the other's back. One had been with 60 mechs, the other 6. They were both TERRIBLE. It doesn't matter how many, it's what you pick up and use and how well you tend to whoever you have."

That wasn't good enough for him, noooooo. "How many?"

Tenacity like that should not be rewarded. Screw Sideswipe. "Seven."

Sideswipe snorted. "That's a lot," he claimed, hands creeping away from Cliffjumper and moving to get up.

He knew it. Cliffjumper sighed. "How many have YOU had, then."

"It doesn't matter! I'm not a mini-bot!" Sideswipe had a sneer of disgust while he oozed out the door. "I gotta go, I'll call you later."

As the door slapped its frame shut Cliffjumper scowled and returned to recharge. One less big bot to worry about.


	41. Primes Not Only Ones

Blurr might have been quick about some things but when it came to subjects outside the realm of speed he was anything _but_. He watched a floral delivery boy drive off the compound (Autobot City, Fortress Maximus, whatever it was called that week) without much thought or running commentary until he heard Bumblebee mumbling to himself.

"Somebody sent Rodimus some roses," he announced. "But who?"

"Who cares? It's some weird human gift transferral, nothing special, just a bunch of harvested plants not a big deal that's a weird custom and what does it mean, anyway? I mean come ON-" Blurr continued to babble about the perplexity of it for another two minutes until Bumblebee interrupted him.

"Shut up, Blurr." Guard duty with him was not fun at ALL. "Humans like giving plants to each other. They do weirder things, I guess. Heck, Optimus got a fifty-foot cactus from a secret admirer once. Jazz and Prowl adopted a plant. Spike gives Carly Irises sometimes. It's what couples do."

Blurr stared off into space, as though he'd been finally hit with a null ray. "I still don't get it-"

"You don't have to. You don't need to. It's not like we have anybody to give plants TO." Bumblebee's tone implied that he wouldn't mind getting a plant from someone. Anyone.

It made Blurr stop (ok, slow down) and consider this. He _did_ have someone…

It took him awhile to look up the both the custom and pertinent plant information from Teletraan-Two, and he wasn't completely confident he got it right, but once he had a general idea, Blurr wasted no time scouting the terrain, zipping around like a ray of light on caffeine. At long last, he found it, at a PLANT store - although it was supposed to be native to the area. Ah, well, it had been almost impossible to acquire.

Bluestreak didn't like surprises. Blurr did not reveal that he had anything special planned, though; the two took their usual leisurely evening roll once the day's work was complete. They both sounded like they were hosting an auctioneer-off, voices rapidly overlapping and outshouting their engines to the point that the racket scared the flocks of birds roosting within a half-mile radius of their location. How they understood each other was a mystery to the average Autobot, but who was complaining when neither chatterbox was addressing THEM?

As they returned to the compound, Blurr called for a halt and he leaped in the air, transforming. "I got you something. I mean, I'm not sure if you'll like it but it makes me think of you so I planted it here so we can drive by it everyday and we don't have to name it or anything but Prowl and Jazz did with their plant but that's ok-"

Bluestreak, puzzled, glanced at the juniper bush that his companion pointed to and tilted his head slightly.

"...and I hope you like it and I didn't get it for any reason but Bumblebee says humans do this all the time and Primes like it, too and I looked forever but nothing seemed to say "Bluestreak" like this and it didn't cost too much but I owe Sideswipe some favors now-"

It wasn't until the Datsun saw the blue-gray berries cheerfully nesting on the conifer's branches, reflecting the last of the day's light, that he realized the thought what had gone into this very shy gesture.

"And it doesn't mean we have to be 'Botfriends or anything but you know we've been close for a long long long long time so I ..." Blurr didn't get to finish his sentence. Bluestreak grabbed his hand and pulled the taller mech closer and pressed his lips against Blurr's.

Grimlock and Swoop had been standing guard outside, where Bumblebee had been earlier. They saw the kiss, exchanged glances, and chuckled.

"Primes not only ones, me Grimlock think."


	42. Free Falling

Up. Back where he came from. Down. Forward. Loop up. Should he follow the dictates of the script he employed and cross the "t" or not? Maybe he'd get back to it. Ramjet veered over to begin the next letter, letting his concentration supersede the dread that emerged as that little voice in his processor warned him that this might not be taken the way he wished. Ah, well, who would see it? The others were off at patrol, or underwater. They wouldn't see this until LONG after the smoke had dissipated.

How did it happen? He had no idea. One day they were being given orders at a briefing and his optics met Ramjet's across the room and...it was as though he'd been shot, sent free falling into nothing. It was a rush, and it was due to that creeping smirk that lingered on his lips had made the Conehead want to smother it and tackle him to the ground and smother the rest of him. The thoughts were as strong now as they were at the moment they'd started, and Ramjet wanted to tell everybody and nobody and explode into the sky into a billion pieces so that he could spend eternity in this one feeling. Not the feeling he had now, as his processor nagged him that Soundwave's spies might see this, or Reflector, and that he'd never hear the end of it. It didn't SEEM like they were there.

He was almost done. It had turned out better than he'd expected: lined up nicely, had an even calligraphy, good dispersion of smoke-oops, he forgot to cross the "t." There. Perfect. A fitting tribute for the one who made him feel like the universe was his castle, not merely the skies. How a look could do that, Ramjet wasn't sure, but he didn't care. It was a moment, and it made him glow inside and out, and if this was the only thing he could think of doing, then so be it. The feeling would probably fade with the smoke, quicker than what seemed poetically correct, but necessary. Having a crush on his fellow Decepticon was a bad idea, anyway.

CRASH! Ramjet was sent flying, grabbing his bearings in time to open return fire on Thrust and Dirge, who hadn't bothered to sneak up on him. Ramjet hadn't been paying attention to them at all. Now he was paying for it.

"WHAT is THAT?" Thrust demanded. "Ah, forget it. I can read human." The teasing erupted from both as all three ducked back inside to report to Megatron.

"The energy collector's been set up," Thrust declared. "The Constructicons are ready for Phase II."

"Excellent," he purred. "Return to the site with Motormaster, Vortex, and Thundercracker."

Ramjet felt his solenoids drop a little at the relization. They would see it and tell everyone, Ramjet was sure of it. As they paused at the landing, Thrust called Thundercracker's attention to it.

"Who did it?" he asked.

Here it comes.

"He probably did it himself, the ego-maniac," Motormaster grumbled.

"Yeah," chimed in Ramjet, waiting for the other two to rat him out. They didn't. This meant he OWED them later. Oh, Primus, that was worse.

"Nah, we saw who did it. He made it LOOK like Screamer's style. Fraggin' loser."

"Who?" The other three asked.

Dirge crossed his arms and smirked. "He promised six cubes not to tell."

"Forget it, it's not worth it," Vortex grumbled.

Thundercracker transformed to get ready to go, radioing headquarters. "Hey Starscream, check it out. Somebody wrote your name in the sky."


	43. Something Beautiful

Thank you, **Need to Breathe.** A companion to "The Ultimate Weapon."

_In your ocean, I'm ankle deep__  
__I feel the waves crashin' on my feet__  
__It's like I know where I need to be__  
__But I can't figure out, yeah I can't figure out__  
_  
It had been fun while it lasted.

_Just how much air I will need to breathe__  
__When your tide rushes over me__  
__There's only one way to figure out__  
__Will ya let me drown, will ya let me drown_

First Aid had been wandering, lost, bored, trying to get away from his past when the stranger greeted him from the porch of the yard. "Autobot or not?" he'd asked.

_Hey now, this is my desire__  
__Consume me like a fire, 'cause I just want something beautiful__  
__To touch me, I know that I'm in reach__  
__'Cause I am down on my knees, I'm waiting for something beautiful__  
__Oh, something beautiful_

He asked for nothing. Took nothing. Merely sat on the porch and talked with First Aid about whatever popped into their processors.

_And the water is risin' quick__  
__And for years I was scared of it__  
__We can't be sure when it will subside__  
__So I won't leave your side, no I can't leave your side_

Once they watched cartoons. Absurdly violent cartoons that made First Aid shudder and turn away. The stranger shut off the TV and asked no questions. He got answers anyway.

_Hey now, this is my desire__  
__Consume me like a fire, 'cause I just want something beautiful__  
__To touch me, I know that I'm in reach__  
__'Cause I am down on my knees, I'm waiting for something beautiful__  
__Oh, something beautiful__  
_  
One night they got to the spark of the matter and discussed First Aid's non-aggressive tendencies. First Aid had tried to be rational but didn't sound that way. Somehow he was understood, though. It was a refreshing change of pace from what usually happened. First Aid began to relax; smile, even...if he could.

_In a daydream, I couldn't live like this__  
__I wouldn't stop until I found something beautiful__  
__When I wake up, I know I will have__  
__No, I still won't have what I need__  
_  
Hot Spot came too soon, with dire news of Trypticon's cog not working in Metroplex and how badly the Autobots needed him. It was as though a light had been turned on full force and the delightful shadows were gone, making the objects that had cast them stand out in cold relief. He had to go back; he had to say good-bye. The stranger nodded his head farewell as casually as he'd greeted him. It hurt to leave something that had been so blessed, so calming - but the war couldn't be avoided. First Aid vowed to return.

_Hey now, this is my desire__  
__Consume me like a fire, 'cause I just want something beautiful__  
__To touch me, I know that I'm in reach__  
__'Cause I am down on my knees, I'm waiting for something beautiful__  
_  
Rodimus was glad to see him. So were the rest. They shone with the light of being the Right Side, a side that promised to understand him better the second time around. Did it matter? There was work to be done. First Aid clenched his jaw and amongst the ulgy wreckage and ugly misery and ugly fighting, he vowed to go back. Return for good.

_Oh, something beautiful (fade out)_


	44. Not What I Expected

For my firend, hellsangelcurse.

"Drop him!" Starscream howled. He had his own troubles.

"Jump off!" Sideswipe bellowed, twisting Starscream's wings as hard as he could before making his own descent.

Red Alert clung on for dear life, wondering WHY and HOW he'd been convinced to try Jet Judo and WHO would have to suffer for suggesting he attempt this humiliation. Skywarp barrel-rolled as hard as possible and it only made the poor Autobot cling harder.

"Slaggit, JUMP OFF!" Sunstreaker should talk, HE'D found a way to force Thundercracker to land on the ground awkwardly but in ONE PIECE. Jazz and Hound were taking care of him now.

Skywarp had enough. "You asked for it!" he declared.

Slag.

There was a whining noise and a HUGE jolt of electricity and a squeezing sensation and Red Alert tried to endure the torture of warping as he prayed he could at least get his bearings before anything major happened.

As the darkness shot into light, Red Alert became aware that the wind that had made so much noise in his audios at Mach 3 was dying...and that they were slowing down, hitting the ground with a shake that was the last thing Red had anticipated-to the point where he flew off of the Decepticon and careened towards a patch of wet dirt on a hill with not much ceremony and very little dignity.

"Oof," he grunted, somersaulting twice before messing up his landing, falling backwards, and rolling down the hill, sliding head down on a fresh patch of mud and skidding to a stop at a set of purple and black feet. Being supine on the ground and his feet still pointing uphill, Red Alert could only latch his gaze onto the leering red optics that distracted him enough that he felt frozen in place and _hey wait a minute they were getting closer_!

Skywarp landed in a human pushup position and had his mouth on Red Alert's upside down and had boosted himself back up and airborne in a matter of seconds.

He lay there, in shock, before forcing himself to roll over to his side and try to figure out where he was.

"That was NOT what I expected!"


	45. Cynical

That little glitch!

"Gears, you're too cynical!" he said.

I had plenty to say to that! "Bumblebee, you're too stupid!" was my first retort, followed by "If you knew HALF what I knew, you wouldn't even be saying that! You'd be-"

"-I'd be dried-up and miserable!" The kid was wrong. He'd be WISER.

You have to forgive me for not thinking this is going to work out. I've seen it happen too many times. I've lived on this planet – sorry, CYBERTRON, not _this_ planet – too many eons to think that maybe the next time around will be any different. Ratchet said once that "What separates us from traans and the droids is that when we see something NOT work, we don't keep doing it out of program loop habit."

Ratchet was a total bore on the plate, by the way. He said "None of the weird stuff" so we did nothing, because he didn't tell me what was 'weird' to him and I freaked out and did NOTHING. Big mistake. Nobody came around for a very long time.

Yeah, yeah, I got to be THAT kind of morale booster. Nobody was mean to me, since I wasn't considered a pleasure-bot. If I didn't like you, you didn't get in. I wasn't doing it for money.

But it did hurt. When they would say nice things until they got what they wanted and then tell me to call in a couple of weeks… that hurt. When they pretended that they were into me but really just wanted a newer model of me…that hurt. When I wanted them to try harder and they wouldn't, to the point where I feared for my sanity because I was doing all the work and they got to treat me like crap because they weren't Bot enough to just end it…that hurt a lot. Or if it was just a slag relationship but it was the realest feeling I'd had for anyone ever but they thought in breaking up that they were doing me a favor….that was the worst.

You'd think they'd know better, but who was there to teach them otherwise?

This set-up is way easier. I know YOU want the bonding, build a kid or two, love forever, but Bumblebee, it doesn't always work out that way. And you have to be ready for when it doesn't. You have to understand that the ones who DID get it – and got it so easily they assume we all can get it – are not going to understand or sympathize with you. You have to see the pattern and adapt.

I see you know, little young Autobot, and your dreams are so far-fetched you'll have to forgive me for being cynical.

Last night the least cynical bot of them all came into my chambers. "Gears, I can't sleep," he began. As he always does. "Just hold me." That always leads to the kissing and the other things. Am I supposed to be optimistic that he might change this pattern? The onus of hurt would be on me, instead.

"Gears, I hate being so lonely," he sighed.

Last week, the least lonely Autobot came to me, angry. He wanted to take his rage out on someone. When it got too rough I threw him out, hissing and spitting his rage and blame. He hadn't done that in a very long time, but the chance was there. Was it cynical of me to have my blaster on hand, just in case?

Two months ago a very tired Autobot came to me and broke all the rules. "I love you, Gears." He didn't mean it. He wanted to have someone to say it to, and I'd seen him say it to others and alienate them the next week. Sure enough, the next day, he pretended I didn't exist. Is it cynical to refuse to believe him?

So forgive me if I don't accept your energon goodies and your offers of G-rated fun and long-term companionship. Don't call it a "good thing you're missing out on because you're so cynical." These aren't tears of bitterness; they're regret that anything good that comes at me will only be turned into something to hurt me later, because I'm prepared.

That little glitch…..


End file.
